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TAIiUABLE BOOK8, 

PUBLISHED BY 

GMGG & ELLIOT, 

JVo, 9 JVorth Fourth Streety 

PHILADELPHIA. 



spijEjvnm iji]Bn*in^' EniTiojy^s, 

BYRON'S WORKS, complete in 1 vol. Svo., including all his Sup- 
pressed and Attributed Poems. 

dl/" This edition lias been carefully compared with tiie recent London edition of Mr. 
Murray, and made complete by the addition of more than fifty pag-es of poems iieretofore 
unpublished in Enj<-land. Amonj,'' these there are a number that have never appeared 
in any American edition ; and the Publishers believe they are warranted in sayirig-, thai 
this is the most complete edition of Lord Bi/ron's Poetical Works, ever published in llit- 
United States. 

All who wish to order the work will do well to say, Grigg- & Elliot's Philadelphia 
edition. 

BURNS' POETICAL and PROSE WORKS, complete, 1 vol. Svo. 
COWPER AND THOMSON'S PROSE AND POETICAL 

WORKS, complete in 1 vol. 8vo., including two hundred and fifty Letters, and sundry 
Woems of Cowper, never before published in this country; and of Thomson a new and 
niteresting Memoir, and upwards of twenty new poems, for the first time printed from 
his own MS., taken from a late edition of the Aldine Poets, now publishing in London. 
The distinguished Professor Silllman, speaking of this edition, observes, "lam as 
much gratified by the elegance and fine taste of your edition, as by the noble tribute of 
geniiis and mural excellence which these delightful authors have left for all future ge- 
nerations ; and Cowper especially, is not less conspicuous as a true Christian moralist 
and teaclier, than as a poet of great power and exquisite taste." 

COLERIDGE, SHELLEY, & KEATS' POETICAL WORKS, 

complete in 1 vol. Svo. 

GOLDSMITH'S ANIMATED NATURE, in 4 vols. 8vo., iUus- 

trated with eighty-five copper-plates. 

"Goldsmith can never be made obsolete, while delicate genius, exquisite feeling, 
fine invention, the most harrnonious metre, and the happiest diction are at all valued." 

This is a work that should be in the library of every family, being written by one of 
the most talented authors in the English language. 

MILTON, YOUNG, GRAY, BEATTIE, AND COLLINS' 

POETICAL WORKS, complete in 1 vol. Svo. 

THE WORKS OF LAURENCE STERNE, in 1 vol. Svo. with 

a life of the author, written by himself. 

THE POETICAL WORKS OF ROGERS, CAMPBELL, 

MONTGOMERY, LAMB, AND KIRK WHITE, complete in 1 vol. Svo. 

HEMANS, HEBER, AND POLLOK'S POETICAL WORKS 

complete in 1 vol. Svo. 

"Among the beautifid, valuable, and interesting volumes which the enterprise and 
taste ot our publishers have presented to the readm.q-^ommunity, we have seldom met 
with one which vve have more cordially greeted .nd can more confidently and .satisfac- 
torily recommend, than that, embracing m a single, substantial, well bound, and hand, 
.somely printed octavo, the poetical works of liishop Heber, Robert Pollok, and Mrs. 
Hemans. What a constellation of poetic ardor, glowing picy, an<l intellectual brillian- 
cy . Such writers require no eulogy. Their fame is established and universal. The 

TeZI: ff''*"^' "'"' \'\^'y' "j:"" ^'''■''' ^'■'*^'''' ''^'"^ ^■'^'■" t''^"1 « '-'"k at once with 
the lovei.ot poetry and li.e ine.ids of religion, unsurpassed perhaps by that of any 



was 



MISCELLANEOUS. 



otiier recent aiitliors in our language. A more delightful addition could scarcely be 
made to the libtary of the gentleman or lady of taste and refinement. The prize 
poems, hymns, and miscellaneous writings of Bishop Heber, the 'Course of Time' by 
Pollok, and tlie rich, various, and splendid productions of Mrs. Hemans, are among the 
standard works, the classics of our language. To obtain and preserve them in one vo- 
lume, cannot but be a desirable object to their admirers." And it is to be hoped it will 
be found in tiie library of every family. 

A writer in the Boston Traveller holds the following language with reference to these 
valuable editions: — 

Mr. Editor, I wisl), without any idea of puffing, to say a word or two upon the "Li- 
brary of English l^oels" that is now publisliing at Piiiladeiphia, by .John Grigg; it is 
certainly, taking into consideration the elegant manner in whicli it is printed, and the 
reasonable price at whicli it is aH'orded to purchasers, the best edition of the modern 
Biitish Poets that has ever been published iii this country. Each volume is an octavo 
of about 500 pages, double columns, stereotyped, and accompanied with fine engrav- 
ings and biographical sketches, and most of them are reprinted from Galignani's French 
edition. As to its v;.liie we need only mention that it contains the entii'e works of By- 
ron, Keats, Cowper, Thomson, Burns, Milton, Young, Scott, Moore, Coleridge, Rogers, 
Campbell, Lamb, Hemans, Heber, the Miscellaneous Works of Goldsmith, and other 
martyrs of the lyre. We observe that PoUok's •' Course of Time," has also been pub- 
lished in the same volume with the works of Hemans and Heber. The publisher is 
doing a great service by this publication, and his volumes are almost in as great demand 
as the fashionable novels of the day, and they deserve to be so, for they are certainly 
printed in a style superior to that in which we have before had the works of the Eng- 
lish Poets. 



MISCEIjLAlVEOtrS WORKS. 

SAY'S POLITICAL ECONOMY, A Treatise on Political Eco- 

nomy, or the Production, Distribution, and Consumption of Wealth, by Jean Baptiste 
Say. Fifth American edition, with Additional Notes, by C. C. Biddle, Esq. in 1 vol. 8vo. 

The editor of the North American Review, speaking of Say, observes, that "he is 
the most popular, and perhups the most able writer on Political Economy, since the 
time of Smith." 

The distinguished biographer of the author in noticing this work observes, " Happily 
for science he commenced that study which forms the basis of his admirable treatise on 
Political Economy, a work which not only improved under his hand with every succes- 
sive edition, but has been translated into most of the European languages." 

This work has been introduced as a text book into the principal Universities and 
Colleges of our country, as well as in Europe. 

It would be beneficial to our country if all those who are aspiring to office, were re- 
quired by their constituents to be conversant with the pages of Say. 

RUSH ON THE MIND, New fine edition. 1 volume. 8vo. 

This work is valuable and highly interesting for intelligent readers of every profession: 
it is replete with curious and acute remarks, both medical and metaphysical, and de- 
serves particular praise for the terseness of its diction. 

RUSH ON THE HUMAN VOICE. Embracing its Physiological 

History, together with a System of Principles, by which criticism in the art of Elocu- 
tion may be rendered intelligible, and instruction definite and comprehensive. To 
which is added, a brief Analysis of Song and Recitative; second edition, with additions. 
By JaMies Rush, M. D. 

A gentleman who is highly distinguished for his literary attainments, and who under- 
stands the subject, observes: 

*' In a few years this work will become a text book in every College, High-School, 
and Academy in the United Slates. We speak with strong confidence, and not without 
knowledge of what we speak, having had an opportunity of witnessing a practical ap- 
plication of its principles in a course of Lectures. It has already found its way into at 
least two of our first universities, having been the occasion of establishing a Professor- 
^4C-^ 'ship in one of them, and is also highly appreciated in some of the great schools ot 
Europe. r " i? ^. ... 

■ ' ■' ^ / rconv . 



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MISCELLANEOUS. 

If iriT^Iaw of our nature tliat certain sounds, or modifications of the voice, pro- 
duce certain associations, it is worth our wltile to know its principles; and whoever 
does know them and itas the power to apply them, possesses a master key over the 
understandin,^ and the lieart. 

*' That there is some such law, an intimate connexion between sound and sense, 
every man's experience teaches him; and yet until Dr. Uusii's book, it would seem that 
no one had subjected tiie principles on which it depends to a philosophical investiga- 
tion and thorough scrutiny, or attempted to reduce tliem to system. Such is the true 
character of the present work, both as to recitative and song, and it is well entitled ' The 
Philosophy of the Human Voice.' 

" Hitherto, while we have bestowed unwearied pains upon the subject of written 
language, we seem to have left spoken language almost to chance. The sounds by 
which sense is to be conveyed to the mind receive little or no attention out of the nur- 
sery. Who will say that to know how to speak is less imj)ortant tiian to know how to 
write? that as much or more may not be done by style in elocution, as by the style of 
our words and phrases? One can with difficulty imagine the effect produced by Chat- 
ham in the British Senate, and Patrick Henry in the Virginia House of Delegates, as 
tradition paints it, from tlie perusal of their printed speeches Equally difficult is it to 
believe, what history informs us, that the splendid orations of Burke fell still-born from 
his lips. If eloquence dues indeed depend upon 'action — action — action,' the allusion 
is more to voice than to gesture. 

" We recolltct once to have heard a discourse from a celebrated clergyman in Phi- 
ladelphia, the composition of which was good, the tlioughts excellent, and the delivery 
fervent, and in a voice of great compass and sweetness, the effect of wliich was in a 
great degree marred by giving to every emphatic word a percussive accent, as the elo- 
cutionist would pronounce what the poet makes Bozardis say to liis soldiers, 'Strike,' 
or, as though the same sermon had been printed with these same emphatic words in 
capital letters, or with the point of exclamation after each. How much more good 
might not this gifted clergyman do if he would make himself master of 'The Philoso- 
phy of the Human Voice?'" 

A. copy of the work, we hope, in a few years, will be found in the library of every 
Clergyman and Lawyer, and all who have a wish to render themselves conspicuous in 
our legislative halls. 

A DICTIONARY op SELECT and POPULAR QUOTATIONS 

which are in daily use : taken from the Latin, French, Greek, Spanish, and Italian 'an- 
guages: together with a copious collection of law maxims and law terms, translated into 
English, with illustrations, historical and idiomatical. Sixth American edition, corrected, 
with additions. 1 vol. 12mo. 

SENECA'S MORALS.— By way of abstract to which, is added, a 
Discourse under the title of an After-Thought, by Sir Roger L'Estrange, Knt. — a new 
fine edition, in 1 vol. 18mo. 

A copy of this valuable little work should be found in every family library. 

MALTE-BRUN'S NEW and ELEGANT QUARTO ATLAS, 

exhibiting the five great divisions of the globe, Europe, Asia, Africa, America, and 
Oceanica, with their several empires, kingdoms, states, territories, and other sub-divi- 
sions, corrected to the present lime; and containing forty maps, drawn and engraved 
particularly to illustrate the Universal Geography, by M. Malte-Brun. 

The Atlas is particularly adapted for Colleges, Academies, Schools, and private fami- 
lies. There is no work that ever was published in this country which has received more 
numerous and flattering recommendations. 

THE AMERICAN CHESTERFIELD, or "Youth's Guide'' to 

the Way to Wealth, Honour, and Distinction, &c. 

" We most cordially recommend the American Chesterfield to general attention; but 
to young persons particularly, as one of the best works of the kind that has ever been 
published in this country. It cannot be too highly appreciated, nor its perusal be un- 
productive of satisfaction and usefulness." 

CONVERSATIONS ON CHEMISTRY, in which the Elements 

of that Science are familiarly explained and illustrated by Experiments and Engravings 
on wood. From the last London edition. In which all the late Discoveries and Im- 
provements are brought up to the present time, by Dr. Thomas P. Jones. 

All preceptois who have a sincere desire to impart a correct knowledge of this im- 
portant science to their pupils, will please examine the present edition, as the correc- 
tion of all the errors in the body of the work renders it very valuable. 



MISCELLANEOUS. 



JOSEPHUS'S (FLAVIUS) WORKS. By the late William Whis- 

ton, A. M. From the last London edition, complete in 2 vols. 8vo. 

As a matter of course, every family in our country have a co[)y of the Holy fiible — 
and as the presumption is, tlie greater portion often consult its pag-es, we take the 
libeity of saying to ail those thai do, that the perlisal of the writings of Josephus will 
be fotind very interesting and instructing. 

All those who wisii to possess a beautiful and correct Copy of this invaluable work, 
would do well to purchase this edition. It is for sale at all the principal bookstores in 
the United States, by country merchants generally in the Southern and Western states, 
and at a very low price. 

BURDER'S VILLAGE SERMONS, or 101 plain and short Dis- 

courses on tht principal doctrines of the Gospel; intended for the use of families, Sun- 
day schools, or companies assembled for religious instruction in country villages. By 
George Border. To which is added, loeach Sermon, a short Prayer, with some gene- 
ral prayers for families, schools, &.c. at the end of the work. Complete in 1 vol. 8vo. 

These sermons, which are characterized by a beautiful simplicity, the entire absence 
of controversy, and y true evangelical spirit, have gone through many and large edi- 
tions, and been translated into several of the continental languages. "They have also 
been the honoured means not only of converting many individuals, but also of intro- 
ducing the gospel into districts, and even into parish churches, where before it was 
comparatively unknown." 

"This work fully deserves the immortality it has attained." 

This is a fine library edition of this invaluable work, and when we say that it should 
be found in the possession of every family, we only reiterate the sentiments and sincere 
wishes of all who take a deep interest in the eternal welfare of mankind. 

BIG LAND'S NATURAL HISTORY OF ANIMALS, 12 colour- 

ed plates. 

BIGLAND'S NATURAL HISTORY OF BIRDS, 12 coloured 

plates. 

PERSIA. A DESCRIPTION OF. By Shoberl, with 12 colour- 

ed plates. 

These works are got np in a very superior style, and well deserve an introduction to 
the shelves of every family library, as they are very interesting, and particularly adapted 
to the juvenile class of readers. 

BENNET'S (Rev. John,) LETTERS TO A YOUNG LADY, 

oti a variety of subjects calculated to improve the heart, to form the manners, and en- 
lighten the understanding. "That our Daughters muj^ be as polished corners of the 
Temple." 

The publishers sincerely hope {for the happiness of mankind) that a copy of this 
valuable little work will be found the companion of every young lady, as much of the 
happiness of evei-y family depends on the proper cultivation of the female mind. 

CARPENTER'S NEW GUIDE. Being a complete Book of 

Lines, for Carpenlr}, Jolner\-, &,c., in 1 vol. 4to. 

The Theory and Practice well explained, and fully exemplified on eighty-four cop- 
per-plates, including some observations, Sic, on the strength of Timber ; by Peter Ni- 
cholson. Tenth edition. This invaluable work superseded, on its first appearance, all 
existing works on the subject, and still retains its original celebrity. 

Every carpenter in our country shoidd possess a copy of this invaluable work. 

HIND'S POPULAR SYSTEM OF FARRIERY, taught on a 

new and easy plan, being a Treatise on all the diseases and accidents to which the 
Horse is liable. With considerable additions and improvements, adapted particularly 
to this country, by Thomas M. Smith, Veterinary Surgeon, and member of the London 
Veterinary Medical Society, in 1 vol. 12mo. 

NEW SONG BOOK.— Grigg's Southern and Western Songster; 
being a choice collection of the most fashionable songs, many of which are original, in 
1 vol. l8mo. 

Great care was taken in the selection to admit no song that contained, in the slightest 
degree, any indelicate or improper allusions — and with great propriety it may claim the 
title of " The Parlour Song Book or Songster." The immortal Shakspeare observes. 



M 



/^ (-^^^^ ^ ,- ^....^ 



SI ISCE M:, ANEOUS. 



*• The man that hath not music in liimself, 

Nor is not moved with concord of sweet sounds, 
Is fit for treasons, stratagems, and spoils." 

Numerous flattering' notices of tliis work have appeared, from time to time, in the 
different newspa|iers throughout our country. 'I'lie followint^ is from tlie pen of Wil- 
liam Leg-jreti, Esq. former editor of "The Critic," a gentleman highly distinguished 
for his litei'ary attainments; 

" A handsome copy of this very popular collection of melodies is lying on our table. 
It differs from song books generally, as much in the taste and judgment which have 
been displayed in the selections, as in the neat style of its typography and binding. 
There is scarcely a song, old or new, admired for any of the qualities which constitute 
a good one, whether for harmony of expression, spirit or tenderness of the thoughts, 
appositeness of imagery, and illustration or smartness of point, that is not to be found 
in this little volume. Besides the numerous productions of the master spirits of tiie old 
world, it contains many sweet cfl'usions fuim cis-atlantic poets ; and, indeed, some of 
these " native wood notes wild," to use the expression of the bard of paradise, are well 
entitled to a place even in a work which contains the melodious numbers of Campbell, 
Moore, and 13} ron. In this last edition of the Southern and Western Songster, the edi- 
tor has availed himself of the enlargement of the size of the volume, to introduce the 
admired songs of the distinguished vocalists, Mrs. Knight, Miss Kelly, the Miss Gilling- 
hams. Miss Clara Fisher, Miss IJock, and others. The extensive and rapid sale which 
the previous editions of this Songster met with, has rendered its character so well 
known, that it can scarcely require commendations; but if any of our readers are in 
want of an extensive, judicious, and neat collection of Melodies, we can cheerfully re- 
commend the volume before us, as combining all those qualities." 




^^ <2.^r..^^. 



AdanwTRoman Antiquities, 8vo 

Albums, fine Paper, in a great variety of 

bindings, &c. 
Art of Drawing Landscapes, &c. 
Allison on Taste, 1 vol. 8vo. 
American Biography. 
Aurora Borealis, or Budget of Wit, 18mo. 
American Constitutions, 12mo. 
Advice to a Young Christian, ISmo. 
Anastasius, a novel, 2 vols. 12mo. 

Blair's Lectures on Rhetoric and Belles 
Lettres, ISmo. and Svo. 

Burke on the Sublime and Beautiful, with 
questions, 12mo. 

Bunyan's Pilgrim's Progress, with plates, 
ISmo. 

Bunyan's Floly War, with plates, 12mo. 

Butler's Hudibras, ISmo. 

Brown's Philosophy of the Human Mind, 
2 vols. Svo. 

Brown's Dictionary of the Bible, Svo. 

British Spy. By Wirt, ISmo. 

Beauties of Henry Kirke White, Lord By- 
ron, Sir Waller Scott, Moore, Shaks- 
peare, British Poets, Waverly, Souve- 
nirs, Burke, Sterne, Johnson, Locke, 
Chesterfield, Blair, &c. 

Bickersteth on Prayer, 12mo. 

Bickersteth on the Lord's Supper. 

Bickersteth's Scripture Help, 12mo. 

Baxter's Saint's Rest, ISmo. 

Beloe's Herodotus, 3 vols. ISmo. 

Baptist Hymn Books, by Dupuy and others, 
ISmo. 



Buck's Theological Dictionary, Svo. 

Biixter's Call. 

Baxter's Life by Orme, 2 vols. Svo. 

Boston's Fourfold State, 12mo. 

Buck's Religious Anecdotes, Svo. 

Butler's Analogy of Religion, 12mo. 

Brown's Concorilance, ISmo. 

Burns's Poems, 2 vols. ISmo. 

Bracebridge Hall, by W. Irving, 2 vols. 
12mo. 

Bell on Baths and Mineral Waters, 12mo. 

Bibles for Families, of all sizes and in a va- 
riety of bindings, at very low prices, 
with and without Psalms and plates. 

Bonaparte's Lite, various editions. 

Bennet's and Tyerman's Journal, 3 vols. 
12mo. 

Children of the Abbey, 3 vols. ISmo. 

Cooper's novels, complete. 

Campbell's Poems, ISmo. and 12mo. 

Cook's Voyages round the World, 2 vols. 
ISmo. 

Chapman's Interest Tables, 4to. 

Common Prayer Books, in various bind- 
ings and sizes. 

Clerk's and Magistrate's Assistant and 
Form Book, 12 mo. 

Cowper's Task, ISmo. 

Ciiarlotte Temple, ISmo. 

Complete Letter Writers. 

Confession of Faith of the Presbyterian 
Ciiurch, ISmo. 

Cruden's Concordance, 1 vol. imperial Svo, 
new edition. 



MISCELiIiANEOUS. 



Charles the Twelfth. Ky Voltaire, 12mo. 
Chalmers' Works, in I vol. 8vo. 
Children's Coloured Toy Books, assorted 

sizes. 
Coleridge, Keats, &c. Poetical Works, 1 

vol. 8vo. 
Clay's, Henry, Life, 12mQ. 
Cobb's Manual on the Mulberry Tree, 

12mo. 
Cyril Thornton, a novel, 2 vols. 12mo. 
Club Book, a novel, 2 vols. 
Caleb Williams, a novel, 2 vols. 

Doddridge on Regeneration, ]2mo. 

Doddridge's Rise and Progress, 12mo. 

Domestic Cookery. By an American Lady, 
18mo. 

Dryden's Virgil, 2 vols. ISmo. 

Don Quixote, 4 vols. 18mo. 

Dream Books, various editions. 

Dick's Christian Philosopher, 12mo. 

Dick'sPhilosopliy ofa Future State, 12mo. 

Dick's Philosophy of Religii^n, 12mo. 

Domestic Duties, or Instructions to Mar- 
ried Ladies, 12mo. 

Diamond Pocket Bibles, various editions 
and prices. 

Diawing Books, various kinds and editions. 

Dupuy's Hymns for the Baptists, 18mo. 

David's Psalms, 18mo. 

Darby's Gazetteer, or Brooks's Improved, 
Bvo. 

Dalgairne's Cookery, 12mo. 

Dutchman's Fireside, a novel, 2 vols. 12mo. 

De Vere, a novel, 2 voir-. 

Diary of a Physician, 2 vols. 18mo. 

Evangelical Catechisms, various kinds. 

Edgeworth's Works, complete. 

Evenings at Home, for young Persons. By 
Mrs. Barbauld and Dr. Aikin, 2 vols. 
18mo. 

Episcopal Prayer Books, in plain and ele- 
gant bindings, different editions, with 
the new Hymns. 

iEsop's Fables, with 100 engravings, ISmo. 

Eugene Aram, a novel, 2 vols. 

Family Bibles of all descriptions, with and 
without the Psalms, Concordance, &c., 
&c. with plates, 4to. 

Federalist, on the New Constitution, 8vo. 

Franklin's Life, written by himself, 18mo. 

Ferguson's Roman Republic, 1 vol. 8vo. 

Fox's Book of Martyrs, with plates. 

Flute Melodies, 4to stitched. 

Flute Instructor, 4to do. 

Fifer's Companion, 4to do. 

Foster's Essays and Works. 

Ford's Plays, 2 vols. 18mo. 

Goldsmith's Poetical and Miscellaneous 
Works, complete in 1 vol. 8vo — with 
portrait. 

Grimshaw's History of England, with Key 
and Questions. 



Grimshaw's History of the United States, 
with Key and Questions, for Schools and 
Families. 
Grimsliaw's Improved edition of Gold- 
smith's History of Rome, with Key and 
Questions, for Schools and Families. 
Grinnsliaw's Improved edition of Gold- 
smith's History of Greece, with Key and 
Questions, for Schools and Families. 
Grimshaw's Ladies' Lexicon, and Parlour 
Companion, containing nearly every word 
in the English language, and exhibiting 
the plural of nouns, and the participles 
of verbs, being also particularly adapted 
to the use of Academies and Schools. 
By William Grimshaw, Esq., Author of 
tlie Gentlemen's Lexicon, &.c. 
The editor of the North American Re- 
view, speaking of these Histories, observes, 
" Among the Elementary Books of Ame- 
rican History, we do not remember to have 
seen one more deserving approbation than 
' Mr. Grimshaw's History of the United 
States,' embracing the period from the first 
settlement of the colonies, to the year 182L 
It is a small volume, and a great deal of 
matter is brought into a narrow space ; — 
but the author has succeeded so well in the 
construction of his periods, and the ar- 
rangement of his materials, that perspicui- 
ty is rarely sacrificed to brevity. 

" The chain of narrative is skilfully pre- 
served, and the Author's reflections are 
frequently such as make the facts more im- 
pressive, and lead the youthful mind to ob- 
serve causes and consequences, which 
might otherwise have been overlooked. 
As a School Book it may justly be recom- 
mended. 

*' What has been said of this volume will 
apply generally to his other historical works. 
They are each nearly of the same size as 
the ene just noticed, and designed for the 
same object, that is, the use of Classes in 
Schools. 

" The ' History of England' is an origi- 
nal composition, but the Grecian and Ro- 
man Histories are Goldsmitli's, improved by 
Mr. Grimshaw, in which he has corrected 
the typographical errors, with which the 
later editions of Goldsmith's Abridgments 
so much abound ; and removed any gross- 
ness in language, which, in some few in- 
stances, rendered these valuable compends 
less useful in the Schools to which Youth 
of both sexes resort. He has also added a 
vocabulary of proper names accentuated, 
in order to show their right pronunciation, 
which is a valuable appendage to the His- 
tory. 

" All these books are accompanied with 
very full and well digested Tables of Ques- 
tions, for the benefit of Pupils, and also 
with Keys to the same, for tlie convenience 
of Teachers." 



cy 



^/A^et^^^-^^^^^^ 



MISCEL-LrANEOUS. 



Gibbon's History of tiie Decline and Fall 
of the Roman Empire, new edition, in 4 
vols. 8vo. 

Gillies' History of Ancient Greece, com- 
plete, in 1 vol. 8vo. 

Goldsmith's Vicar of Wakefield, 18mo. 

Gibson's Surveying, 8vo. 

Goldsmith's Natural History, with plates, 
12mo. 

Hervey's Meditations, 18mo. 

History of Enijland. By Hume, Smollet, 

and Bissett, 9 vols. 
Hannah More's Works, complete, 2 vols. 

8vo. 
Homer's Iliad, translated by Pope, 2 vols. 

18mo. 
Homer's Odyssey, translated by Pope, 

18mo. 
Hudibras, by Butler, 24mo. 
Hannam's Pulpit Assistant, 3 vols. ISmo. 
Henry on Prayer, 12mo. 
Henry's Commentary on the Scriptures, 6 

vols, super royal 8vo. 
Heber's Poems, 18mo. 
Hunter's Sacred Biography, 8vo. 
Holy War, fine edition, with plates, 12mo. 
House Keeper's Manual, 12mo. 
Hutton's Mathematics, 2 vols. Svo. 

Indian Wars, 12mo. 
Infantry Drill, 12mo. 

Jay's Family Prayers, 18mo. 
Jnnius's T.,etters, 2 vols. 18mo. 
Jenks' Devotions, 12mo. 
Jefferson's Works, 4 vols. 8vo. 
Juvenile Books, a great variety. 
Jay's Closet Exercises, 2 vols. 12mo. 
Jay's Lectures, 12mo. 
Johnson's Works, complete. 

Kame's Elements of Criticism, Svo. and 
12mo. 

Lempriere's Classical Dictionary, Svo. 

Locke's Essays on the Human Understand- 
ing, Svo. 

Locke and Bacon's Essays, 18mo. 

Letter Writers, various editions. 

Lady of the Lake, a Poem. By Walter 
Scott, 18mo. 

Lady of the Manor, 7 vols. 18mo. 

Lalla Rookh, a Poem. By T. Moore, 18mo. 

Life of Patrick Henry, Svo. 

Looking Glass for the Mind, ISmo. 

Life of General Jackson, ISmo. 

Life of General Marion, by Weems, 12mo. 

Life of General Washington, by Weems, 
12mo. 

Life of Dr. Franklin, ISmo. 

Moore's Poetical Works, complets, in 1 

vol. Svo. with a portrait of the Ai'thor. 
Milton's Paradise Lost and Regained, ISmo. 



Methodist Hymn Books, various kinds and 

prices. 
Modern Europe, History of, by Russel, 3 

vols. Svo. 
Marshall's Life of Washington, 3 vols. Svo. 
Moore's Irish Melodies, ISmo. 
Miller on the duties of Ruling Elders, 12mo. 
M'Kenzie's 5000 Receipts, Svo. 

Novels and Romances by the author of Wa- 
verly, complete in 50 vols. 

New Hymns of the Episcopal Church, va- 
rious sizes. 

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^i 



POETICAL WJOMS 





HEMANS,AHEBEuB A^^'^D POLLOK. 




COMPLETE IN ONE VOLUME^. 




jj^r 2^ PHILADELPHIA: 

JOHN GRIGG, NO. 9, NORTH FOURTH STREET. 



1834. 






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THE 



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OF 



REGINALD HEBER, D.D. 



LORD BISHOP OF CALCUTTA. 



(tonttniu. 



Memoir of Bishop Heber, 
Palestine, • . • 
Europe, 



HYMNS. 

■Por Advent Sunday, -. • ■ ■ 
Second Sunday in Advent, - 

For the same, 

Third Sunday in Advent, ... 

Fourth Sunday in Advent, 

Christmas Day, - 

St. Stephen's Day, • 

Si. John the Evangelist's Day, 

Innocents' Day, .... 

Sunday after Christmas, or Circumcision, 

Epiphany, 

First Sunday after Epiphany, 
Second Sunday after Epiphany, 
For the same, ... 
For the same, • • • 
Third Sunday after Epiphany, 
Fourth Sunday after Epiphany, 
Septuagesima Sunday, • 
Sexagosima, 
Quinquagesima, - 
Third Sunday in Lent, 
Fourth Sunday in Lent, 
Fifth Sunday in Lent, 
Si.xth Sunday in Lent, . 
Good Friday, . . . • 
Easter Day, . . - • 
Fifth Sunday after Easter, 
Ascension Day and Sunday after, 
Whitsunday, . . . • 
Trinity Sunday, . . - < 
First Sunday after Trinity, 
For the same, ... 
Second Sunday after Trinity, • 
Third Sunday after Trinity, - 
Fourth Sunday after Trinity, - 
Fifth Sunday after Trinity, - 
Seventh Sunday after Trinity, . 
Tenth Sunday after Trinity, . 
Tliirteenth Sunday after Trinity, 
Fifteenth Sunday after Trinity, 



Page. 
Sixteenth Sunday after Trinity, . . .23 
Nineteenth Sunday after Trinity, • • . 24 
Twenty-first Sunday after Trinity, . . • ib. 
Twenty-second Sunday after Trinity, . - ib. 
Twenty-third Sunday after Trinity, - - .25 
Twenty-fourth Sunday after Trinity, - . fb. • 

For St. James' Day, lb, 

Michaelmas Day, ib. 

In Times of Distress and Danger, • . -26 
Intended to be sung on occasion of his preaching 

a sermon for the Church Missionary Society, ib. 
An Introit, to be sung between the Litany and 

Communion Service, • • > • ib. 
Before the Sacrament, ... • ib. 

At a Funeral, ib. 

Stanzas on the Death of a Friend, - • •27 
On Recovery from Sickness, - . . ib. 

TRANSLATIONS OF PINDAR. 

I. To Hiero of Syracuse, Victor in the Horse Race, 23 

II. To Theron of Agragas, Victor in the Chariot 

Race, 29 

in. To the same, 31 

IV. To Psaumis of Camarina, - • . .32 

V. To the same, ib. 

VI. To Agesias of Syracuse, 33 

TRANSLATIONS FROM THE HINDOOSTANEE. 

Sonnet by the late Nawab of Aude, Asuf ud Dowla, 87 

From the Gulistan, - . . . . ib. 

From the same, ib. 

From the same, - ib. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

Passage of the Red Sea, . 
Lines on Lord Grenville's Installation, - 
Epitaph on a. Young Naval Officer, 
An Evening Walic in Bengal, 
Lines Written to his Wife, 

Happiness, 

The Moonlight March, • 

Lines, 

Farewell, 

Vespers, ...... 

To General Hill, .... 

Imitation of an Ode, by Koodrut, 



39 
40 
ib. 
41 
lb. 
42 
ib. 
ib. 
ih 
tb. 
Ib. 



MEMOIR 

OF THE 

i2t(fifit neb, iHraCnaltr ®etiet, m.W. 

SECOND BISHOP OF CALCUTTA. 



Among the distinguished men of the present age, 
the late Bisliop Heber, of Calcutta, deserves a 
high rank, as a most accomplished poet, as an 
acute, discriminating, pious, and learned divine ; 
as a traveller possessing the talent of accurate ob- 
servation and perseverance in a very high degree; 
but, especially, as a most disinterested and devoted 
Christian bisho[) and missionary, he has left behind 
him an imperishable memory. 

Reginald Hegkr was the second son of the 
Rev. Reginald Fleber, and was born on the 21st 
of April, 1783, at Malpas, in Cheshire, England, 
where his father then held a pastoral charge. His 
mother was Mary Allanson, daughter of the Rev. 
Dr. Allanson, of the same county. So that h% 
jTiay be said to have been of Levitical descent : a 
circumstance whic.li, probably, was not without 
influence ujjon his mind from a very early period. 
The earliest dawnings of his mind are said to have 
given ])romis(! of tho.sc christian graces, with whicli 
he was, through all the stages of his illustrious life, 
so richly endowed ; and of those talents, which 
eventually gave him an eminent rank among the 
literary characters of the age. In his childliood, 
the eagerness with which ho read the Bible, and 
the accuracy with which he treasured up large 
portions of it in his memory, were such as to ex- 
cite observation ; and this first a[)i)lication of his 
powers undoubtedly laid the foundation of that 
masterly knowlo<lge of the Scriptures, which he 
subsequently attained; and to the perfecting of 
which, almost all his reading was made, directly 
or indirectly, to contribute. His literary education 
was commenced at the granmiar school of Whit- 
church, pursued under Dr. Bristowe, a teacher 
near London, and was completed at Brazen-nose 
college, Oxford, where he was entered in 1800. 
" At the univer.sily," said his ear'j- friend, Sir 
Charles Grey,' at the time of his decease Chief- 
justice of Calcutta, " he was, beyond all question 
or comparison, the most distinguished student of 
his time. The name of Reginald Hcber was in 
every mouth ; his society was courted by young 
and old ; he lived in an atmosphere of favour, ad- 
miration, and regard, from which I have never 
known any one but himself, who would not have 
derived, and for Ufe. an unsalutarv influence." 



The next year he gained the chancellor's prize 
at the university, by his Latin verse, " Carmen 
Seculare." In 1803, when but little more than 
nineteen years of age, occurred one of those happy 
coincidences which occasionally make the paths of 
duty and of pleasure the way to enduring fame; 
a prize subject, for English verse, was that year 
assigned, which awaked " all that was within 
him,'' — Palestine. Upon this theme he wrote, 
and with signal success. It was recited, as usual, 
in the theatre, with much diffidence on the part of 
the author, to a greatly admiring audience, among 
whom was his aged father, whose feelings were so 
overcome by the applause bestowed upon his son, 
Jiujt, immediately after the recitation, he mounted 
Ills norse, and returiied to his home. The poem 
produced a great sensation. It procured the prize, 
was set to music, and brought to its author public 
and universal )>raise. The knowledge it displays 
of Scripture and of the Holy Land, its copious 
and flowing language, its beautifully diversified 
figures, and the exact discrimination, accurate con- 
ception, and pure taste which it displays through- 
out, have given it a deservedly high rank among 
the literature of the age. It has been said by an 
Imglish critic, that this is almost the only univer- 
sity poem that has maintained its honours unim- 
paired, and entitled itself, after the lapse of years, 
to be considered the property of the nation. In 
1805, Mr. Heber obtained a third prize for an 
English essay, On the Sense of Ilunour. 

Shortly after this, he left England in company 
with Mr. John Thornton, to make the tour of the 
eastern parts of Europe. The war, at that time 
firevailing between Eiigland and France, excluded 
English travellers from a large portion of the con- 
tinent. Mr. Heber and his friend were, therefore, 
only able to visit some parts of Germany, Rus.sia, 
and the Crimea. Ele made a copious journal of 
his travels; but as he did not think proj)er to pre- 
sent his observations to the public in his own 
name, when Dr. E. D Clarke sent his volume of 
travels through Russia, Tartary, and Turkey, to 
the press, he allowed him the free use of his jour- 
nal, of which Dr. Clarke availed him.self to a con- 
siderable extent in the form of notes to his work, 
by which its value was certainly largely increased. 



MEMOIR OP HEBER. 



Dr. Clarke, in his preface, and in various parts of 
his volume, pays a well merited tribute to " the 
zealous attention to accuracy which appears in 
every statement" of Mr. Heber. Of the closeness 
and discrimination of his observations, the vivid 
recollection of Russian buildings, language, and 
incidents, which appear in his Indian journals, 
written nearly twenty years later, afford very strik- 
ing proofs. What he saw in Hindoostan is repeat- 
edly compared with what he recollected to have 
seen in Russia. He seems, at times, almost con- 
vinced that several Indian practices must have had 
a Russian origin, and he frequently detected him- 
self in mingling Russian words with Hindoostanee 
when addressing the natives of India.* It was 
during this journey, and while in the city of Dres- 
den, that he began a poem on Europe, which, 
however, he did not complete till after his return, 
and which he published in 1809. In the same 
year he published his poem of Palestine, to which 



' We may introduce here Mr. Heber's account of a visit 
which Mr. Thornton and himself paid to the celebrated Plato, 
archbishop of Moscow, taken from Dr. Clarke's travels, to 
which it is annexed as a note. 

"There ia a passage in Mr. Heber's journal very character- 
istic of this extraordinary man. Mr. Heber, with his Vision 
Mr. Thornton, paid him a visit in the convent of Bi 
and, in his description of the monastery, I find the foUi 
account of the archbishop. 'The space beneath the rocks is 
occupied by a small chapel, furnished with a stove, for winter 
devotion; and on the right hand is a little, narrow cell, con- 
taining two coffins, one of which is empty, and destined for 
the present archbishop ; the other contains the bones of the 
founder of the monastery, who is regarded as a saint. The 
oak coffin was almost bit to pieces by different persons afflicted 
with the tooth-ach, for which a rub on this board is a specific. 
Plato laughed as he told us this ; but said, 'As they do it de 
bon ccBur, I would not undeceive them.' This prelate has 
been long very famous in Russia, as a man of ability. His 
piety has been questioned ; but from his conversation we drew 
a very favourable idea of him. Some of his expressions 
would rather have singed the whiskers of a very orthodox 
man ; but the frankness and openness of his manners, and the 
liberality of his sentiments, pleased us highly. His frankness 
on the subjects of politics pleased us higlily. The clergy 
throughout Russia are, I believe, inimical to their govern- 
ment ; they are more connected with the peasants than most 
other classes of men, and are strongly interested in their suf- 
ferings and oppressions ; to many of which they themselves 
are likewise exposed. They marry very piuch among the 
daughters and sisters of their own order, and form almost a 
caste. I think Buonaparte rather popular among them Pla- 
to seemed to contemplate his success as an inevitable and not 
vea-y alarming prospect. He refused to draw up a form of 
prayer for the success of the Russian arms. ' If,' said he, 
' they are really penitent and contrite, let them shut up their 
places of public amusement for a month, and I will then cele- 
brate public prayers.' His expressions of dislike to the nobles 
and wealthy classes were strong and singular; as also tlie 
manner in which he described the power of an emperor of 
Russia, the dangers which surround him, and the improba- 
bility of any rapid improvement. 'It would bemuch better,' 
Baid he, 'had we a constitution like that of England.' Yet I 
Bugpect he does not wish particularly well to us in our war 
with France."— //eier's M!^. Journal. 



he added another poem of a few lines, on the pas- 
sage of the Israelites through the Red Sea. 

He returned from the continent in 1807, and 
soon afterwards was admitted to holy orders, and 
inducted into his patrimonial preferment of Hod- 
net in Shropshire, estimated at 3000i. per annum, 
comprising the estate of his ancestors, which had 
been held by his father during the last years of his 
life. The patronage of this living had become 
vested in his family by a marriage with an heiress 
of the Vernon family. He now married Amelia, 
the daughter of Dr. Shipley, Dean of St. Asaph, 
and thenceforward willingly devoted himself to the 
enjoyment of the domestic charities, and to the 
discharge of those unobtrusive duties which fill up 
the life of a country clergyman. He was here sur- 
rounded by his relatives, and an intelligent and 
agreeable society. He possessed as many of the 
ingredients which make up the suiu of human 
happiness as he could desire. The love of fame, 
however valuable in the eyes of most men, appears 
never to have had any strong hold upon his feel- 
ings, and, at this period, probably had none what- 
ever. His society was indeed courted by the world 
wliich he was so well qualified to attract and gra- 
tify; but he had set before himself, in the spirit 
the truest and noblest ambition, a course of se- 
?et virtue and self-denying diligence, in pursuing 
which, he rightly estimated, that it was the way 
to the purest earthly happiness, and that its bril- 
liant termination would be richly worth every sa- 
crifice, should he be called to any, which he could 
make for it. Devoted to his profession, he consi- 
dered it his most honourable distinction to become 
the friend, the pastor, the spiritual guide of those 
whose spiritual interests had been committed to 
his charge. "He laboured to accommodate his 
instructions," says one of his friends, "to the com- 
prehension of all; a labour by no means easy to a 
mind stored with classic elegance, and an imagi- 
nation glowing with a thousand images of subli- 
mity and beauty. He rejoiced to form his man- 
ners, his habits, and his conversation, to those who 
were entrusted to his care, that he might gain the 
confidence and affection of even the poorest among 
his flock; so that he might more surely win their 
souls to God, and finally, in the day of the last 
account, present every man faultless before his 
presence W'ith exceeding joy. He was, above all, 
singularly happy in his visitation of the sick, and 
in administering consolation to those that mourned ; 
and his name will long be dear, and his memory 
most precious, in the cottages of the poor, by 
whose sick beds he has often stood as a minister- 
ing angel." " His sermons," says another of his 
friends, " were very original — sometimes expand- 
ing into general views of the scheme and doctrines 
of revelation, collected from an intimate acquaint- 
ance, not with commentators, but with the details 



/^< 



MEMOm OF ""*—- ' 



vil 



of holy writ itself, frequently drawing ingenious 
lessons for christian conduct, from the subordinate 
parts of a parable, a miracle, or a history, which a 
less imaginative mind would have overlooked — 
often enlivened by moral stories, with which his 
multifarious reading supplied him; and occasion- 
ally by facts which had come, perhaps, under his 
own observation, and which he thought calculated 
to give spirit or perspicuity to the truths he was 
imparting: a practice which, when judiciously re- 
strained, is well adapted to secure tiie rustic hearer 
from the fate of Eutychus, without giving offence 
even to nicer brethren; of which the powerful ef- 
fect is discoverable (though the figures may be 
grosser than the times would now admit) in the 
sermons of Latimer and the R-cformers; subse- 
quently, in tliose of Taylor and South; and still 
more recently in the popular harangues of Whit- 
field and Wesley; and a practice we will add, 
which derives countenance and authority from the 
use of parables in the preaching of our Lord." 
Both in the pulpit and in his ordinary conversa- 
tion, his language was polished, yet seldom above 
the reach of a country congregation; and when 
occasion required, was dealt out to them in a way 
it was impossible to misunderstand. Frequently he 
indulged in bold and striking metaphors, and he 
was always attractive in the happy adoption of ex- 
pressions from the pure and undefiled English of 
the Bible, with wliich his mind was thoroughly 
imbued, and which he could call up at will. 

It was while engage<l in this way, that he found 
time for the occasional (composition of some hymns, 
of which he originally intended to prepare a se- 
ries, adapted to the Englisli Church service 
throughout the year, for the use of his own parish. 
A few of them were first j)ublislied in the Chris- 
tian Observer for 1811 and 1812, introduced by a 
brief statement of the motives which led to their 
com[)osition, which were correct in themselves, 
and highly creditable to the author.* From some 
cause he never completed tlie task which he iiad 
set for himself; but among tho.se which he did 
prepare, there are some very beautiful specimens 
of devotional poetry, which would alone be suffi- 
cient to preserve ids memory from decay. Some 
of them, as his missionary hymn, have obtained a 
very just celebrity ; and there are few readers of 
p<ietry who are not familiar with that beautiful 
piece, beginning Urightest and best oj' the sons of 
the morning .i 

' This statemeju may be fouud prcctdiiig ilie Uymus in 
this volume. 

tWhile on his primary visitation, at Meerut, in die heart 
of India, lie vva-s delijrhilirily surprised at hearing fome of 
these hymns sung in the chiu'ch where lie was preaching. 
" I had the gralificalion," iie says in his journal, " of hearing 
my own hymns, ' Brightest and best of the eons of the morn- 
ing,' and tliat for St. Stephen's day, sung better than I ever 
heard them in church before." 



I In 1812 he published a small volume of poems, 
including, beside those we have already alluded 

I to, with the exception of the hymns, some transla- 
tions of Pindar, and one or two smaller pieces. 
In 1815, he was chosen, though still young, and 

I only in the first eligible degree, to deliver the 
Bampton Lectures before the university of Oxford. 
The lectures, conformably to the directions of the 
founder, were pubhshed the ensuing year, under 
the title of " The Personality and Office of the 
Christian Comforter asserted and explained in a 
course of Sermons on John xvi. 7." Of these 
lectures it has been said by a judicious and able 
critic, that the author " has displayed much depth 
and accuracy of investigation ; an extensive ac- 
quaintance with tlie hidden .stores of learning, 
whether laid up in the writings of the ancient phi- 
losophers and poets, the Christian fathers of the 
Greek and Latin churches, or the still more re- 
condite Rabbinical compilers ; and a richness and 
grandiloqidsm of expression, which, to say the 
least of it, is fully as appropriate to the poet of 
Palestine as to the Ban.pton lecturer. The im- 
mense mass of learning introduced into this vo- 
lume is doubtless very creditable to the powers 
and industry of Mr. Heber." 

A few critical essays, both theological and lite- 
rary, which appeared in the periodical publications 
of the day, without his name, and an ordination 
sermon, printed at the request of the Bishop of 
Chester, before whom it was delivered, comprise 
all his literary labours from the date last named, 
till 1822, when he again appeared before the pub- 
lic, as the editor of an edition of the works of Je- 
remy Taylor, to which he annexed an account of 
the life of Bishop Taylor, and a review of his 
writings from his own eloquent pen. While this 
work exhibits advancement to a more ripened 
knowledge, and improvement in ta,ste and style, 
it derives a great interest, from the evident sym- 
pathy with wluch Mr. Heber regards the life and 
writings of that heavenly-minded man. Taylor 
and Heber have, indeed, been thought to possess 
much in common, a poetical habit of mind, disgust 
at intolerance, great simplicity of cliaractcr and 
feeling, a hatred of every thing sordid and con- 
tracted, a love for practical rather than specula- 
tive religion, and a degree of faith, not the less 
bright and towering, because connected with a 
lofty imagination. 

It was about the same time, that he was elected 
preacher at Lincoln's Inn, which, requiring his 
residence for a short period of each year in Lon- 
don, brought hiin occasionally into more conspicu- 
ous society, and withdrew him, in a measure, from 
that retirement, and even obscurity, which he had 
appeared to court, and brought out his many vir- 
tues in a light more fitted to show forth their va- 
lue, and to give them the influence they migliA 



% '^ 



^•l> 



MEMOIR OF^EBER 



'PITT? ' > » * 



\ 



reasonably challenge. The greater part of the 
year was, however, still spent by him at Hodnet, 
where he had now erected a dweUing for his per- 
manent residence. 

In this manner upwards of fifteen years had 
passed away since he had settled at Hodnet, dur- 
ing which he was in the enjoyment of all the be- 
nefits of refined society, and all the blessings of 
domestic life, which no one could more highly 
appreciate. His income was much more than 
competent to all his wants, and his pure and well 
balanced mind was satisfied with his enjoyments. 
He sought not distinction, but gifted as he was 
with the means of being useful to mankind, it was 
beyond his power to avoid it. If he had desired 
eminence, the way was plainly open before him, 
and he had only to put forth those powers with 
which he was so liberally endowed, to reach it. 
If ambition had been his object, he would have 
been fully justified in indulging sanguine hopes 
of advancement in England. Among the whole 
bench of English prelates, if talents and virtues 
constitute a claim, there was none better entitled 
to his seat, or more capable of adorning it, than 
Reginald Heber would have been. 

On the death of Dr. Middleton, the first En- 
glish Bishop of Calcutta, the diocesan charge of 
the English Churches in India was offered to him. 
Reluctance to leave his aged mother, and his coun- 
try, made him at once decline the offer. But its 
acceptance was pressed upon him by friends, 
whose opinions he highly estimated ; and after the 
lapse of a week, spent in dsvout meditation and 
prayer to Him who holds the destinies of man, he 
desired that this station, of which the honour most 
certainly, to use the language of Jeremy Taylor, 
would not pay the burthen, if not already disposed 
of, might be entrusted to him. He bent himself 
holily to that overruling Providence, which, in all 
the incidents of his life, he never ceased to regard 
as working all things for good. And when the 
appointment was, at length, given him, a distrust- 
ful and uneasy sensation, wliich had distressed his 
mind at the apprehension that he might have 
shrunk, in too cowardly a spirit, from the obvious 
dictates of duty, passed away, and he acquired 
new confidence in himself, from the conviction that 
he had acted rightly. "I can sa}^ with conJl- 
dence," he wrote to a friend at this time, " that I 
have acted for the best ; and even now, that the 
die is cast, I feel no regret at the resolution I have 
taken, nor any distrust of the mercies and good- 
ness of Providence, who may protect both me and 
mine, and, if he sees best for us, bring us back 
again, and preserve our excellent friends to wel- 
come us."* 



When Mr. Heber's acceptance of the bishopric 
of Calcutta was announced to his friends, the in- 
telligence was received with surprise by some, and 
with deep regret by many, whose personal feelings 
were too powerful to be altogether excluded from 
the question. Satisfied, as they were, that a 
bright career was open for him at home, and not 
taking the enlarged view of human duty which 
was famihar to him, they suffered their own selfish 
delight in his society and honours to interfere with 
his ardent desire to do good to all men. Bishop 
Middleton, too, it was well known, had sunk un- 
der the heavy duties of the station, joined to the 
debilitating effects of a tropical clime ; and to many 
of Mr. Heber's friends, it seemed that he was too 
ready to go, crowned indeed with flowers, like a 
victim to the sacrifice. It- was, moreover, believ- 
ed, by some of those who would have dissuaded 
him from the duty, that his character possessed 
some points, which, however amiable in themselves, 
were calculated to prevent that eminent degree of 
success, which could atone for the sacrifice he was 
to make, and the hazard he was certainly to en- 
counter. It was thought, too, that the striking 
simplicity of his taste and manners would be little 
suited to a country where the object chiefly sought 
was wealth, and where pomp and show were uni- 
versal idols. There was, too, about him, notwith- 
standing all he had seen and read of human Hfe 
and human character, a prodigality of kindness 
and confidence in his nature, which would render 
it very difiicult for him, it was supposed, to oppose 
himself with sufiicient decision to the many ob- 
stacles which he might meet with, in a course of 
government, yet barely tried upon those who were 
to be the subjects of it, and among whom many 
conflicting interests were likely to appear. No 
misgivings, however, of this kind, ever occurred to 
his own mind. Ele knew, and had weighed well 
the various diflicultios with which Christianity 
had to contend in India, and, modest and humble 
as he was, he had anxiously studied the quahty 
and bent of his own resources in regard to them. 
The more he thought of the matter in this light, 
the more strongly was he convinced that India 
was the proper field for his Christian labours, and 
having brought his mind to this result, he deter- 
mined that no sense of personal gratification or 
comfort, nor any hope of future dignity, should 
interfere with a conviction, which he deliberately 
regarded as a voice from heaven, speaking to his 
conscience. 

On Sunday, the twentieth of April, he took 
leave of his congregation, in a discourse which has 
been repeatedly published, in the close of which 
he bade them farewell, in the following pious, 



• In e.\planation of this expression, it is stated, tliat in con- and chaplains of the Anglo-Indian Church are allowaj to re, 
THJueBce of thm peculJaritjT of the mrvic^ in India, the Maboys turn to, B»^aad after a c»rtain term rf eemw. 



MEMOIR OF HEBER. 



beautiful, and even eloquent expressions, the uni- 
versal admiration of which has been amply proved 
by the frequency with which they have appeared 
in print: 

" My ministerial labours among you must have 
an end; I must give over into other hands, the 
task of watching over your spiritual welfare ; and 
many, very many, of those with whom I have 
grown up from childhood, in whose society I have 
passed my happiest days, and to whom it has been, 
during more than fifteen years, my duty and my 
delight (with such ability as God has given me) to 
preach the gospel of Christ, must, in all probabi- 
lity, see my face in the flesh no more. Under such 
circumstances, and connected with many who now 
hear me by the dearest ties of blood, of friendship, 
and of gratitude, some mixture of regret is excus- 
able, some degree of sorrow is holy. I can not, 
without some anxiety for the future, forsake, for 
an untried and arduous field of duty, the quiet 
scenes, where, during so much of my past last life, 
I have enjoyed a more than usual share of earthly 
comfort and prosperity; I can not bid adieu to 
those with whose idea almost every recollection of 
past happiness is connected, without many earnest 
wishes for their welfare, and (I will confess it) 
without some severe self-reproach, tliat, while it 
was in my power, 1 have done so much less than 1 
ought to have done, to render that welfare eternal. 
There are, indeed, those here who know, and 
there is One, above all, who knows better than 
any of you, how earnestly I have desired the peace 
and the holiness of his church; how truly I have 
loved the people of this place; and how warmly 
I have hoped to be the means, in his hand, of 
bringing many among you to glorj'. But I am at 
this moment but too painfully sensible, that in 
many things, yea in all, my jierformance has fallen 
short of my principles; that neither privately nor 
publicly have I taught you with so much diligence 
as now seems necessary in my eyes : nor has my 
example set forth the doctrines in which I have, 
however imperfectly, instructed you ; yet, if my 
zeal has failed in steadiness, it never has been 
wanting in sincerity. I have expressed no con- 
viction which I have not deeply felt; h;.vo preach- 
ed no doctrine which I have not steadfastly be- 
lieved : however inconsistent my life, its leading 
object has been your welfare — and I have hoped, 
and sorrowed, and studied, and prayed for your 
instruction, and that you miglit lie saved. For my 
labours, such as they were, I have been indeed 
most richly rewarded, in the uniform ailection ajid 
respect which I have received from my parishion- 
ers; in their regular and increasing attendance in 
this holy place, and at the table of the Lord ; in 
the welcome which I have never failed to meet in 
the houses both of rich and poor ; in the regret 
(beyond my deserts, and beyond my fullc«st ex- 



pectations) with which my announced departure 
has been received by you ; in your expressed and 
repeated wishes for my welfare and my return; in 
the munificent token of your regard, with which I 
have been this morning honoured;* in your nu- 
merous attendance on the present occasion, and 
in those marks of emotion which I witness around 
me, and in which I am myself well nigh con- 
strained to join. For all these accept such thanks 
as I can pay — accept my best wishes — accept my 
affectionate regrets — accept the continuance of the 
prayers which I have iiitherto offered up for you 
daily, and in which, whatever or wherever my 
sphere of duty may hereafter be, my congregation 
of Hodnet shall (believe it !) never be forgotten." 

His consecration to the office of bishop took 
place in May, 1823. A few days previous to this 
event, he wrote to a friend in the country: "My 
consecration is fixed for next Sunday; and, as the 
time draws near, I feel its awfulness very strongly 
— far more, I think, than the parting whicli is to 
follow a tbrtnight after. I could wish to have the 
praj'crs of my old congregation, but know not how 
to express the wish in conformity with custom, or 
without seeming to court notoriety." 

Shortly after his consecration, a special meet- 
ing of the ancient Society for Promoting Christian 
Knowledge, which had for some years been en- 
gaged in active benevolent operations in India, and 
which comprises many of the most eminent mem- 
bers of the Church of England, was called, for the 
purpose of giving Bisiiop Heber a i)ublic dismissal 
and farewell. There were present on this occa- 
sion, tlie Archbishop of Canterbury, several of the 
Bishops, and a large and highly respectable at- 
tendance of the fair, the wise, and the pious of the 
realm. The Bisliop of Bristol pronounced a va- 
ledictory address to him in the name of that vene- 
rable body, at once dignified, impressive, and 
affectionate. From this address the following 
passage is extracted, and while it does no more 
than justice to the motives of Bishop Heber, it 
wilt at the same time be gratif^ying to the reader. 

"xMy Lord — The Society for promoting Chris- 
tian Knowledge desire to offer to your Lordship 
their sincere congratulations upon your elevation 
to the Episcopal See of Calcutta, 

" They derive from your appointment to this 
high office the certain assurance, that all the ad- 
vantages which they have anticipated from the 
formation of a Church Establishment in India, will 
be realized; and that tlie various plans for the 
diffusion of true religion among its inhabitants, 
which have been so wisely laid and so auspiciously 
commenced by your lamented predecessor, will, 
under 3'our superintendence and control, advance 

* A piece r>r plate had iKon given Mr. Heber by hia pa. 

rbhicmMH. 



MEMOIR OF HEBER. 



with a steady and uninterrupted progress. Tliey 
ground this assurance upon the rare union of in- 
tellectual and moral qualities which combine to 
form your character. They ground it upon the 
steadfastness of purpose, with which, from the pe- 
riod of your admission into the ministry, you have 
exclusively dedicated your time and talents to the 
peculiar studies of your sacred profession; aban- 
doning that human learning in which you had al- 
ready shown that you were capable of attaining 
the higliest excellence, and renouncing the certain 
prospect of literary fame. But, above all, they 
ground this assurance upon the signal proof of self- 
devotion, which you have given by your accept- 
ance of the episco[)al office. With respect to any 
other individual, who had been placed at the head 
of the Church Establishment in India, a suspicion 
might have been entertained that some worldly 
desire, some feeling of ambition, mingled itself 
with the motives by which he was actuated ; but, 
in your case, such a suspicion would be destitute 
even of the semblance of truth : every enjoyment 
which a well regulated mind can derive from the 
possession of wealth, was placed within your 
reach: every avenue to professional distinction and 
dignity, if these had been the objects of your soli- 
citude, lay open before you. What then was the 
motive which could incline you to quit your native 
land "? — to exchange the delights of home for a te- 
dious voyage to distant regions ■?— to separate 
yourself from the friends with whom you had con- 
versed from your earliest years'? What, but an 
ardent wish to become the instrument of good to 
others — a holy zeal in your Master's service — a 
firm persuasion, that it was your bounden duty to 
submit yourself unreservedly to his disposal; to 
shrink from no labour which he might impose; to 
count no sacrifice hard which he might require 1" 

In his reply the Bishop expressed " the settled 
purpose of his soul," to devote his best talents "to 
the great cause in which all their hearts were en- 
gaged, and for which it was not their duty only 
but their illustrious privilege to labour," and that 
he looked forward with pleasure to " the time when 
he should be enabled to preach to the natives of 
India in their own language." About the same 
time the University of Oxford conferred on him 
the Degree of Doctor in Divinity, by diploma. 

On the sixteenth of June, he embarked for 
Calcutta; accompanied to the ship by a large num- 
ber of his personal friends, who, as he modestly re- 
marks in his Journal, were willing to let him see 
as much of them as possible before his departure. 
One of his first thoughts after the ship had sailed, 
was to propose daily evening prayers, and he was 
gratified at the readiness with which the captain 
assented to the proposal. He accordingly officiated 
a« chaplain to the ship, reading prayers in the 



cuddy daily during the voyage. He read prayers 
and preached regularly once on each Sunday; and 
on one occasion, having on the previous Sunday 
discoursed to the passengers and crew, in the way 
of preparation, lie administered the Lord's Supper, 
and was highly pleased; having been told to expect 
only one or two, that he had twenty-six or twenty- 
seven participants; and his gratification was much 
increased when he observed in the course of the 
evening of the same day, that " all the young men 
who had participated, had religious books in their 
hands, and that they appeared, indeed, much im- 
pressed," 

The following incidents are extracted from his 
journal of the voyage as tending to show the cha- 
racter of his feelings at this interesting crisis. A 
few days after they had loft land, a vessel passed 
the ship homeward bound. On this event he re- 
marks, " my wife's eyes swam with tears as this 
vessel passed us, and there were one or two of the 
young men who looked wishfully after her. For 
my own part, I am well convinced all my firmness 
would go, if 1 allowed myself to look back, even 
for a moment. Yet, as I did not leave home and 
its blessings without counting the cost, I do not, 
and I trust in God, that I shall not, regret the 
choice I have made. But knowing how much 
others have given up for my sake, should make me 
more studious to make the loss less to them; and 
also, and above all, so to discharge my duty, as 
that they may never think that these sacrifices 
have been made in vain." Again ; about a month 
after his de[)arture, he writes — '■ How little did I 
dream at this time last year, that I should ever be 
in my present situation! How strange it now 
seems to me to recollect the interest which I used 
to take in all which related to southern seas and 
distant regions, to India and its oceans, to Austra- 
lasia and Polynesia! I used to fancy I should like 
to visit them, but that I ever should, or could do 
so, never occurred to me. Now, that I shall see 
many of these countries, if life is spared to me, is 
not improbable. God grant that my conduct in 
the scenes to which he has appointed me may be 
such as to conduce to his glory, and to my own 
salvation through his Son." Such was the spirit 
in which this holy man denied himself, took up hia 
cross, and followed Christ. 

He arrived at Calcutta early in October, 1823, 
and immediately entered upon the duties of his 
office. That he did so with satisfaction to himself 
is proved by a letter to Mr. Wynn, his friend and 
connexion, who had anxiously pressed him to ac- 
cept the office, written soon after his arrival. He 
says, " you will judge from my description that I 
have abundant reason to be satisfied with my pre- 
sent and future prospects; and that in the field 
which seems opened to me for extensive useful- 



MEMOIR OF IIEBER. 



ness and active employment, I have more and more 
reason to be obliged to the friend who has placed 
me here." 

In the following spring (May, 182-t) he collected 
around him the Episcopal clergy of the presidency 
of Calcutta, and held a visitation. The number 
was but small, but he experienced much pleasure 
in bringing them together for mutual acquaint- 
ance, and in particular, that he might himself be 
enabled to acquire a knowledge of their cliaracters 
and views. At this time he had the pleasure of 
ordaining the first native convert who was admit- 
ted to the ministry of the English Church, "in 
the person of Christian David, a black catechistof 
Ceylon, and a pupil of the celebrated Schwartz." 
On this occasion he delivered to the clergy an elo- 
quent charge, in which he expatiated at large upon 
the qualities, principles, and habits, which to him 
appeared to be necessary to the usefulness of those 
who should undertake the labours of an Indian 
missionary. Delighting, through the whole of the 
time he passed in India, to be considered simply as 
its chief missionary, it may easily be believed that 
he dwelt on those topics con amore. In the fol- 
lowing passage of that charge, he pours forth his 
soul in a strain of awful and indignant rebuke 
against the Abbe Dubois, and other opposers of 
Christian missions, which is scarcely to be paral- 
leled in our language. 

" Nor can it be a matter of reasonable surprise 
to any of us, that the exertions (missionary) of 
this kind, which the last fifteen years have wit- 
nessed, should have excited a mingled feeling of 
surprise and displeasure in the minds, not only of 
those who are strangers to the powerful and pecu- 
liar emoi.ons which send forth the Missionary to 
his toil, but of those who, though themselves not 
idle, could not endure that God should employ 
other instruments besides ; and were ready to speak 
evil of the work itself, rather tha/i that others who 
followed not with them should cast out devils in 
the name of their common Master. To the former 
of these classes may be referred the louder opposi- 
tion, the clamours, the expostulation, the alarm, 
the menace and ridicule which, some f^^w years 
ago, were systematically and simultaneously le- 
velled at whatever was accomplished or attempted 
for the illumination of our Indian fellow-subjects. 
We can well remember, most of us, whet revolu- 
tions and wars were predicted to arise from the 
most peaceable preaching and argument; what 
taunts and mockery were directed against scholars 
who had opened to us the gates of the least acces- 
sible oriental dialects; what opprobrious epithets 
were lavished on men of whom the world was not 
worthy. We have heard the throats of the mighty; 
we have heard the hisses of the fool ; wo have wit- 
nessed the terrors of the worldly wise, and the un- 
kind suspicions of those from whom the Missionary 



had most reason to expect encouragement. Those 
days are, for the present, gone by. Through the 
Christian prudence, the Christian meekness, the 
Christian perseverance, and indomitable faith of 
the friends of our good cause, and through the 
protection, above all, and the blessing of the Al- 
mighty, they are gone by ! The angel of the Lord 
has, for a time, shut the mouths of these fiercer 
lions, and it is the false brother now, the pre- 
tended fellow-soldier in Christ, who has lift up his 
heel against the propagation of the Christian gos- 
pel. 

" But thus it is that the power of antichrist hath 
worked hitherto and doth work. Like those spectre 
forms which the madness of Orestes saw in classi- 
cal mythology, the spirit of religious party sweeps 
before us in the garb and with the attributes of 
pure and evangelical religion. The cross is on 
her shoulders, the chalice is in her hand, and she 
is anxiously busied, after her manner, in the ser- 
vice of Him by whose holy name she is also called. 
But outstrip her in the race, but press her a little 
too closely, and she turns round on us witli all the 
hideous features of envy and of rage. Her hal- 
lowed taper blazes into a sulphurous torch, her 
hairs bristle into serpents, her face is as tlie face of 
tiiem that go down to the pit, and her words are 
words of blasphemy! 

" What other spirit could have induced a Chris- 
tian minister, after himself, as he tells us, long la- 
bouring to convert the heatlien, to assert that one 
hundred millions of human beings — a great, a civil- 
ized, an understanding, and most ancient people, 
are collectively and individually under the sentence 
of reprobation froni God, and under a moral in- 
capacity of receiving that gospel which the God 
who gave it hath appointed to be made known to 
all? 

" What other spirit could have prompted a 
member of that church which professes to hold out 
the greatest comfort to sinners, to assert of a na- 
tion with wiiom, whatever are their faults, I, for 
one, should think it im possible to live long with- 
out loving them, that tiiey are not only enslaved 
to a cruel and degrading superstition, but that the 
principal persons among them are sold to all man- 
ner of wickedness and cruelty; without mercy to 
the poor; without natural afl'ection for each other; 
and this with no view to quicken the zeal of Chris- 
tians, to release them from their miserable condi- 
tion, but that Christians may leave them in that 
condition still, to the end that they may perish 
everlastingly 1 

" What other spirit, finally, could have led a 
Christian missionary, (with a remarkable disre- 
gard of truth, the proofs of which are in my 
hands,) to disparage the success of the different 
Protestant missions; to detract from the num- 
beiSj and vilify the good name of that ancient Sv- 



MEMOIR OF HEBER. 



rian church, whose flame, like the more sacred 
fire of Horeb, sheds its lonely and awful bright- 
ne&.T over the woods and mountains of Malabar, 
and to assure us, (hear. Oh Israel!) in the same 
treatise, and almost in the same page, that the 
Christians of India are the most despised and 
wretched of its inhabitants; that whoever takes up 
the cross, takes up the hatred of his own people, 
the contempt of Europeans, loss of goods, loss of 
employment, destitution, and often beggary; and 
yet that it is interest alone, and a love of this world, 
which has induced, in any Hindu, even a tempo- 
rary profession of the gospel? 

" And this is the professed apologist of the peo- 
ple of India! My brethren, I have known the 
sharpness of censure, and I am not altogether with- 
out experience in the suffering of undeserved and 
injurious imputations. And, let tiie righteous 
smite me friendly, I shall receive it (I trust in 
God) with gratitude. Let my enemy write a book, 
so he be my open enemy, I trust (through the 
same Divine aid) to bear it or to answer it. But 
whatever reproofs I may deserve ; to whatever cal- 
umnies I may be subjected ; may the mercy of 
Heaven defend me from having a false friend for 
my vindicator !" 

Soon after this he commenced his first visitatioji, 
accompanied by his friend and chaplain, the Rev. 
Martin Stowe, who had followed him from En- 
.gland. As it was late in the season before he could 
Jeave his family, which at first he intended should 
also accompany him, he was obliged to travel b}^ 
water in preference to the then hazardous journey 
by land. He accordingly left Calcutta in a pin- 
nace for Upper India, and ascended the Ganges 
as high as Allahabad, upwards of six hundred 
miles from Calcutta ; stopping at all the principal 
places, and particularly wherever any official duty 
awaited him, or a congregation of Christians could 
be collected, however small; and tliough obliged 
to preach, as was often the case, witliin the con- 
tracted rooms of a temporary Indian dwelling 
house. At Dacca, he was called to the painful 
trial, for such his journal proves it to have been, 
of parting with his friend Stowe ; who, from im- 
prudent exposure, brought on himself a disease of 
the climate, which in a few days destroyed h'a 
life. Bishop Heber, in giving an account, which 
is pathetically descriptive of his loss, to Mrs. He- 
ber, mentions incidentally, what he had not other- 
wise alluded to, that from the very beginning of 
the journey they had prayed and read together 
daily, and that, on the last Sunday which he saw, 
they had received the sacrament together ; and 
adds, "I trust I shall never forget the deep contri- 
tion and humility, the earnest prayer, or the ear- 
nest faith in the mercies of Christ, with which he 
commended himself to God." And his pious 
habit of drawing instruction from every event, is 



finely illustrated in the following passage of the 
same letter. " One lesson has been very deeply 
imprinted on my heart by these few days. If 
this man's innocent and useful life (for I have no 
doubt that the greater part of his life has been both 
innocent and useful) offered so many painful re- 
collections, and called forth such deep contrition, 
when in the hour of death he came to examine 
every instance of omission or transgression, how 
careful must we be to improve every hour, and 
every opportunity of grace, and so to remember 
God while we live, that we may not be afraid to 
think on him when dying ! And, above all, how 
blessed and necessary is the blood of Christ to us 
all, whicli was poor Stowe's only and effectual 
comfort!" Any man might be proud of such an 
eulogy as he gave to the memory of his friend, 
which, indeed, he dwells upon in successive letters 
to Mrs. Heber, as if unable to abandon the subject. 
This lingering over the recollection of a deserving 
object evinces the strength of his attachment, and 
the more powerfully because alluded to incident- 
all}^, and in a way which he could not have sup- 
posed would meet any other eyes than those for 
whose special perusal the letters were intended.* , 
In the same manner did he show the strength of 
his domestic feelings, when, a few days before the 
decease of Stowe, after indulging himself in a de- 
scription of the beautiful scenery of the river in 
iiis journal, he suddenly, and, as if cxultingly, re- 
marks — " To-day I had the delight of hearing 
again froni my wife, and this is worth all the scene- 
ry in the world !" 

It was understood between the Bishop and 
Mrs. Heber, that they were to meet at Boglipoor, 
a place on the river some distance above Dacca, 
but the dangerous sickness of their children com- 
pelled Mrs. Heber to remain at Calcutta, and this 
feeling and sensitive man was doomed to be disap- 
pointed of the happy meeting he was anticipating, 
and to be deprived of the company of his beloved 
wife, in a journey which was yet to be extended 
through a whole year! In a letter to her at this 
period he says, " your joining me is out of the ques- 
tion ;" and adds, " I am strangely tempted to come 
to you. But I fear it might be a compromise of 
my duty and a distrust of God! I feel most grate- 
ful indeed to him for the preservation of our inva- 
luable treasures." And having said this he went 
on his way, in the path to which duty called. 

From Allahabad he travelled on horseback, 
with, as is usual, and even necessary in that coun- 
try, a considerable suite, to Almorah in the Hima- 
laya mountains, and from thence across the coun- 
try to Surat, where he embarked for Bombay; at 

' His letter to Miss Stowe on the death of her brother is a 
fine specimen of the manner in which a feeling and Christian 
heart, though wounded, could pour consolation into a bosom 
more deeply wounded still, 



MEMOIR OF HEBER. 



which place he arrived on the 19th of April ; and 
in a few days he had the delight of meeting his 
family, who came thither by sea from Calcutta, 
after an absence of more than ten months. On 
the route from Allahabad to Surat, he visited 
several small congregations of Christians; not a 
few of whom were native converts, concerning 
whom his journal contains many interesting anec- 
dotes. He visited also each of the native courts 
which lay in his route, but, as he asserts in one 
of his letters, never went out of his way for objects 
of curiosity. He found, nevertheless, sufficient 
employment to keep his attention fully awake, for 
he says, " In every ride which I have taken, and 
in ov?ry wilderness in which my tent has been 
pitched, I have as yet found enough to keep my 
mind from sinking into the languor and apathy 
which have been regarded as natural to a tropical 
climate." 

From Bombay he went with his family to Cey- 
lon, where he remained several weeks, visiting the 
churches and performing the duties of his episco- 
pal office. He held a visitation of his clergy at 
Colombo, and addressed them : among those pre- 
sent were two natives, one of whom was Chris- 
tian David, who had been ordained by Bishop 
Heber himself, as before mentioned — the other 
had been educated at Cambridge, in England, and 
had married a respectable English woman ; both 
these were chaplains on the colonial establishment. 
While here he exerted himself much to pr.ocnre 
the reestablishment of the general system of 
schools and religious instruction, w'aich the Dutch 
government had originated while in possession of 
the island, and which he was anxious to restore. 
Another object, which at the same time engrossed 
much of his attention, was a plan for furnishing 
facilities for literary and theological education to 
the native catechists, or " proponents," so as gradu- 
ally to lit them for admission to holy orders, and 
make them the groundwork of a regular paro- 
chial clergy. To this end he suggested to some 
of the clergy, the translation of a few of the 
most popular English works into the Cingalese and 
Tamul languages. At Candy he was waited on by 
a deputation of the Bhuddist priests, whom Mrs, 
Heber describes as " dressed in long yellow robes, 
with the right arm and shoulder bare, and their 
heads and eye-brows closely shaven." On his 
return to Calcutta, after an absence of about fif- 
teen months, which had been consumed in this 
visitation, he had the gratification of ordaining 
another native christian, Abdul Museeh, whom 
he describes as a venerable old man, a native of 
Lucknow, and an elegant Persian and Hindoos- 
tanee scholar. " He greatly impressed us all," 
says Bishop Heber, "with his deep apparent emo- 
tion, his fine voice and elegant pronunciation, as 



well as his majestic countenance and long white 
beard." 

An individual who was present at the meeting 
of a missionary association at Calcutta, at which 
Bishop Heber [^resided, at this time, remarked 
of him, " It was truly encouraging to witness the 
kind spirit of Bishop Heber; there he was, some 
considerable time before the business of the eve- 
ning began: in fact, the impression which his con- 
duct made on my mind, was, that he felt as though 
every individual who attended the meeting con- 
ferred a personal favour on him." 

In January, 1826, he again left; Calcutta and 
his family, "with a heavy heart," on a visit to the 
churches in the Indian peninsula, and the now well 
known Syrian churches, of the Malabar coast. 
The following note in his journal, made while yet 
in the river, is interesting in its relation to his 
character, "We proceeded to the Sandheads, and 
dismissed the pilot. I was glad to learn from 
him, that a poor man who had once taken us up 
the river, and got miserably drunk on that occa- 
sion, had been greatly impressed with some good 
advice I had given him, and had since remained a 
water drinker. I wish my good counsels were 
always equally successful!" 

During his stay at%Iadras he was gratified by 
the attention shown him by the Armenians in that 
city, and particularly with the presence, on one 
occasion, when he held a Confirmation, of their 
Archbishop Athanasius and two other dignified 
ecclesiastics, in his congregation. It is very evi- 
dent from his journals, that a friendly and even 
brotherly intercourse with the ancient churches ot 
the East lay very near his heart, and that he avail- 
ed himself of every proper occasion to cultivate it. 
At one of his visitations, at Calcutta, he invited 
several of the principal Armenian ecclesiastics to 
meet his clergy at dinner at his own house ; and 
he certainly excited in many of the members of 
that church a very high degree of respect for his 
person and character. 

While at Madras he visited the Prince Azeem 
Khan, uncle and guardian to the Nawab of the 
Carnatic, accompanied by his clergy in their robes. 
They were received with as much state as this 
little court could muster; the prince being sur- 
rounded with a crowd of " Ullemah" or learned 
men. While tiie Bishop was conversing with the 
prince, some of these learned men expressed to 
Mr. Robinson, the Bishop's chaplain, their asto- 
nishment that the Bishop was without a beard, ob- 
serving, (the Bishop says, with much truth,) that 
learned men lost much dignity and authority there 
by the effeminate custom of shaving. They also 
asked if the Bishop was the head of all the Eng- 
lish church ; and being told that he was the head 
in India, but that there was in England anothei 



MEMOIR OF HEBER. 



clergyman superior to him, the question was re- 
peated, " And does he not wear a beard 1" 

The time he spent in Madras w'as about a fort- 
night, and in this space he preached eleven times, 
besides presiding at a large society meeting, giving 
two large dinner parties, (for he was habitually 
given to hospitality,) and receiving and paying 
"visits innumerable." Circumstances which suffi- 
ciently show his love of action, and his disposition 
to fill up every moment of his time, with the duties 
belonging to his station. 

On leaving Madras lie passed the spot where, 
tradition says, the apostle St. Thomas was mar- 
tyred. Bishop Heber thought this tradition well 
founded, and noted in his journal that he left the 
spot behind with regret, and should visit it, if he 
returned to Madras, with a reverent, though, he 
hoped, not a superstitious interest and curiosity. 
He reached Tanjore on the 25th of March, and 
on the 26th (Easter Sunday) preached an eloquent 
and impressive sermon on the resurrection, in the 
church, which, at the request of the native mem- 
bers of the congregation, he promised to have 
translated into the Tamul language and printed. 
In concluding the sermon, he in the most feehng 
manner impressed the duty of brotherly love upon 
all present, without regard to rank or colour. 
Divine service was performed the same evening in 
the Tamul language, when, to the agreeable sur- 
prise of all present, he pronounced the Apostolic 
benediction in that language. On Monday he held 
a confirmation. In the evening divine service was 
held in the chapel in the mission garden. At the 
conclusion, he addressed the missionaries present 
in an affectionate and animated manner; observing 
to them, that it was probably the last time that all 
present could expect to meet in this world; and 
exhorted them to diligence and perseverance by 
the example of Schwartz, near whose remains he 
was then standing. On the 28th, attended by his 
chaplain, and several missionaries of the district, 
he paid a visit of ceremony to the Rajah of Tan- 
jore, On the 29th and 30th he visited and in- 
spected the mission school and premises. On the 
31st he departed for Trichonopoly. Of the feel- 
ings which governed him during this brief visit, a 
glowing but evidently not exaggerated description, 
has been given by the chaplain who accompanied 
him, Mr. Robinson. "The missions at Tanjore 
and this place," (Madras,) says Mr. Robinson, 
"awakened, in a most powerful degree, and be- 
yond any thing he had previously seen, the affec- 
tions of his heart ; and to devise and arrange a 
plan for their revival and more extended prospe-j 
rity, was the object which occupied him for many ; 
days; and to the last hour of his life, his anxious, 
thoughts, his earnest prayers, and the concentrated i 
energies of his mind. Again and again did he 
repeat to me that all which he had witnessed in ' 



the native congregations of these missions, their 
numbers, their general order, their devout attend- 
ance on the service of the church, exceeded every 
expectation he had formed ; and that in their sup-- 
port and revival he saw the fairest hope of ex- 
tending the Church of Christ. Never shall I for- 
get the warm expressions of his delight, when on 
Easter-day he gathered them around him as his 
children, as one family with ourselves, administer- 
ed to tiiem the body and blood of our common Sa- 
viour, and blest them in their native tongue: and 
when in the evening of that day, he had seen be- 
fore himno lessthan Thirteen hundred* natives 
ol t'liose districts rescued from idolatry and super- 
stition, and joining as with one heart and voice in 
the prayers and praises of our church, — I can 
never forget his exclamation, that he would glad- 
ly purchase that day with years of life F' 

Bishop Heber arrived at Trichonopoly on the 
1st of April ; on the following day (Sunday), he 
preached to a crowded audience, and in the evening 
confirmed forty young persons, and the next morn- 
ing at 6 o'clock he repeated this rite for the benefit 
of some native Christians. He returned home to 
breakfast; but, before sitting down, went into a 
cold bath, as he had done the two preceding days. 
His attendant, thinking that he staid more than 
the usual time, entered the apartment, and found 
his body at the bottom of the water, with the face 
downwards, and hfeless. The usual restoratives 
were immediately but ineffectually tried. The 
spirit had returned to God who gave it. On ex- 
amination, it was discovered thui a vessel had 
burst upon the brain, in conseq tince, as the me- 
dical attendants agreed, of t e sudden plunge 
into the cold water, while he was warm and ex- 
hausted. His mortal remains were deposited on 
the north side of the altar of St. John's church, 
Trichonopoly. 

The melancholy intelligence of this overwhelm- 
incr calamity was communicated, in the most cau- 
tious manner, to his amiable and accomplished but 
unfortunate widow, by Lord Combermere, her re- 
lative. Bishop Hcbcr left two children only, both 
of whom were daughters. He died in the forty- 
third year of his age. 

Though his death is thus to be imputed to an 
apparent accident, yet there was reason to believe 
that his constitution, like that of. his predecessor, 
gradually yielding to the effects of a tropical cli- 



• Bishop Heber, in one of liis letter.% mentions the same 
number as being present on this occasion, and adds, "This 
however, is only in the city of Tanjore. Tliere are scattered 
congregations, to the number of many tlio-Lisand Protestant 
Christians, in all the neighbouring cities and villages; and 
the wicker-bound graves, each distinguished by a little cross 
of cane, of the poor people by the road side, are enough to 
tell even the most careless traveller that the country is, in a 
great measure, Chiistian." 



MEMOIR OF HEBER. 



mate, combined with active habits of exertion 
formed in a more temperate clime, and leading 
him to frequent, and somewhat too heedless an 
exposure of his person, even at times and in cir 
cumstances in which he is obliged to admit in his 
journals, that it was but a matter of ordinary pru 
dence to leave his flimily behind, rather than to 
expose them. When he first ascended the Ganges, 
and before he had reached the termination of his 
voyage, Abdullah, a nr,.tivo convert, and faithful 
servant, whom he had first met in England, and 
who had accompanied him to India, on one occa- 
sion cautioned him tenderly against the exposure 
to which his habits of exertion constantly led him, 
concluding with the remark, " This has caused 
your hair to turn so gray since your arrival in In- 
dia;" a period less than a year. In Oude, when 
on his way to the Himalaya mountains, he was 
taken ill on the road, with the country fever, 
brought on him, doubtless, by exposure to rain, 
and various changes of the atmosphere, which he 
had just before been compelled to endure on horse- 
back. He was at this time without any com- 
panions but natives, and probably two days' ride 
from any physician. It pleased Providence to 
bless the remedies which he used, as he admits, in 
utter ignorance; and he was cheered during the 
three or four days in which he lay, almost hope- 
less, in his palanquin, at the road side, by the af- 
fectionate attentions, and kind consideration of his 
native servants. To such an extent did they 
carry this last particular, that, if any noise was 
made, even accidentally, within his hearing, 
several voices would softly urge "silence!'' upon 
the involuntary offender. At this time he wrote 
to his mother and sister under the strong impres- 
sion of impending death. His natural buoyancy 
of mind, and the ardour of his spirit, combined 
with the novel character of the circumstances in 
which he was placed, were probably tiie causes 
which made him thus thoughtless of himself. He 
knew, moreover, what extensive hopes of the re- 
generation of India had been made to rest upon 
him : — he knew that he was looked to as a power- 
ful instrument in the hand of God to this end ; that 
from his talents, his disposition, his personal habits, 
his principles, and above all his almost enthusias- 
tic devotion, likening him in all these respects to 
the very chiefest of the apostles, much more than 
he could reasonably expect to accomplish, was an- 
ticipated. He had set before him, and never 
allow^ed to be absent from his mind, the maxim of 
his Divine Master, — / must work the works of 
him that sent me while it is day ; the night cometk 
when no man can work. There was one, liowev- ' 
er, who watched with an anxious eye over his 
welfare, from whom it could not be concealed that, 
before the attack which proved fatal to him, decay ' 



had commenced its work, and that his personal 
appearance had undergone no trifling change. In- 
deed, it would seem to be but a waste of human 
life and human talent, to place any competent 
person, of sufficient age, whose habits have been 
formed in Europe, in tlie oversight of such a dio- 
cese as British India, with Polynesia and Aus- 
tralasia, forms. And yet this was Bishop Heber's 
lot.* 

Of his death it has been beautifully said, that 
"His sun was in its meridian power; and its 
warmth most genial when it was suddenly eclipsed, 
forever. He fell as the standard bearer of the 
cross sliould ever wish to fall, by no hngering de- 
cay, but in the finnness and vigour of his age, and 
in the very act of combat and triumph. His Mas- 



' Of the extent and burthensome character of the business 
details of his office he gave the following account in a letteno 
his friend and successor at Hodnet, the Rev. J. J. Blunt. 

" I do not think, that, in the regular and ordinary functions 
of my diocese, there is more, or even so much to be done, as 
in any of the more extensive bishoprics of England; the small 
number of the clergy must prevent this being the case. But 
on the other hand, every thing which is done must be done by 
myself, both in its spirit and its details; and partly owing to 
the manner in which we are scattered, and partly to the ge- 
neral habit of the country, all must be done in writing. Ques- 
tions, which in England would not occupy more than five 
minutes conversation, may here sometimes call for a letter 
of si.\: or eight pages; and as nothing, or almost nothing, 
which concerns the interests or duties of the clergy, can be 
settled witliout a reference to Government, I have, in fact, at 
least two sets of letters to write and receive, in every impor- 
tant matter which comes before me. As visiter of Bishop's 
College, I receive almost every week six or seven sheets of 
close writing on the subject. I am called on to give an opinion 
on the architecture, expense, and details of every church 
which is built, or proposed to be built, in India ; every appli- 
cation for salary of either clerk, sexton, schoolmaster, or bell- 
ringer, must pass through my hands, and be recommended in 
a letter to Government. I am literally the conductor of all 
the mis-sions in the three presidencies ; and what is most seri- 
ous of all, I am obliged to act in almost every thing from my 
own single judgment, and on my own single responsibility, 
without any more experienced person to consult, or any pre- 
cedent to guide me. I have, besides, not only the Indian 
clergy and the Indian government to correspond with, but the 
religious societies at home, whose agent I am, and to whom I 
must send occasional letters,'the composition of each of which 
occupies me many days : while in the scarcity of clergy which 
is, and must be felt here, I feel myself bound to preach, in 
some one or other of the churches or stations, no less frequent- 
ly than when I was in England. 

" All this, when one is stationary at Calcutta, may be don<^ 
indeed, without difficulty: but my journeys throw me sadly 
into arrears; and you may easily believe, therefore, not only 
that I am obliged to let slip many opportunities of writing to 
my friends at home, but that my leisure for study amounts to 
httle or nothing ; and that even the native languages, in which 
it has been my earnest desire to perfect myself, I am com- 
pelled to acquire very slowly, and by conversation more than 
by reading. With all this, however, in spite of the many 
disadvantages of climate and banishment, I am bound to 
confess that I like botli my employments and my present 
country." 



MEMOIR OF HEBER. 



tcr came suddenly, and found liirn faithful in his 
charge, and waiting for his appearing. His last 
hour was spent in his Lord's service, and in min- 
istering to the humblest of his flock. He had 
scarcely put off the sacred robes with wliich he 
served at the altar of his God on earth, when he 
was suddenly admitted to his sanctuary on high, 
and clothed with the garments of immortality." 

Immediately on the intelligence of his death, 
public meetings were called at Calcutta, at Mad- 
ras, and at Bombay, in which eulogies were pro- 
nounced upon his character, by those who had 



known him long,* and who gave to his memory 
the highest expressions of their praise. 

It has been determined to erect monuments to 
the memory of Bishop Heber at Calcutta, at Mad- 
ras, and in St. Paul's cathedral, London, and at 
Oxford. Several scholarships have been founded 
in Bishop's College, near Calcutta, which, from 
the same motive, are to bear his name. The 
monument at Madras has been already erected. 



' The chief justices of the three presidencies who were pre- 
sent at these meetings, were by a singular coincidence his 
contenjporaries at college. 



KvVbnttn to ttie mtmovyt of iJl^liop fl^ti}tt. 



BY FELICIA HEMANS. 

If it be sad to speak of treasures gone, 
Of sainted genius called too soon away. 

Of light, from this world taken while it shone, 
Yet kindUng onward to the perfect day — 

How shall our grief, if mournful these things be, 

Flow forth, O guide and gifted friend ! for theel 

Hath not thy voice been here amongst us heard? 

And that deep soul of gentleness and power. 
Have we not felt its breath in every word, 

Wont from thy lip, as Hermon's dew, to showerl 
Yes! in our hearts thy fervent thoughts have 

burned — • 
Of heaven they were, and thither are returned. 

How shall we mourn thee? — With a lofty trust, 

Our life's immortal birthright from above ! 
With a glad faith, whose eye, to track the just, 
Through shades and mysteries lifts a glance of 
love, 
And yet can weep! — for Nature so deplores 
The friend that leaves us, though for happier 
shores. 

And one high tone of triumph o'er thy bier. 
One strain of solemn rapture be allowed ! 

Thou that, rejoicing on thy mid-career, 
Not to decay, but unto death hast bowed ! 

In those bright regions of the rising sun. 

Where Victory ne'er a crown lilie thine hath won. 

Praise, for yet one more name, with power en- 
dowed, 
To cheer and guide us onward as we press, 
Yet one more image on the heart bestowed, 

To dwell there— beautiful in holiness ! 
Thine'. Heber, thine! whose memory from the 

dead 
Shines as the star, which to the Saviour led. 



BT AMELIA OPIE. 

How well I remember the day I first met thee! 
'T was in scenes long forsaken, in moments 
long fled. 
Then little thought I that a world would regret 
thee ! 
And Europe and Asia both mourn for thee dead. 

Ah ! little I thought in those gay social hours, 
That around thy young head e'en the laurel 
would twine. 
Still less that a crown of the amaranth's flowers, 
Envsrreathed with the ■palm, would, O Heber ! 
be thine. 

We met in the world, and the light that shone 
round thee 
Was the dangerous blaze of wit's meteor ray, 
But e'en then, though unseen, mercy's angel had 
found thee. 
And the bright star of Bethlehem was marking 
thy way. 

To the banks of the Isis, a far fitter dwelling, 
Thy footsteps returned, and thy hand to its lyre, 

While thy heart with the bard's bright ambition 
was swelling, 
But holy the theme was that wakened its fire, 

Again in the world and with worldlings I met thee, 
And then thou wert welcomed as Palestine's 
bard, 
They had scorned at the task which the Saviour 
had set thee, 
The Christian's rough labour, the martyr's re- 
ward. 



TRIBUTES TO THE MEMORY OF BISHOP HEBER. 



xvu 



Yet,* the one was my calling, thy portion the 
other ; 
The far shores of India received thee, and blest, 
And its lowliest of teachers dared greet as a bro- 
ther. 
And love thee, though clad in the prelate's 
proud vest. 

In the meek humble Christian forgot was thy 
greatness. 
The follower they saw of a crucified Lord, 
For thy zeal showed his spirit, thy accents his 
sweetness. 
And the heart of the heathen drank deep of the 
word. 

Bright as short was thy course, when "a coal 
from the altar" 
Had touched thy blest lip, and the voice bade 
thee "Go," 
Thy haste could not pause, and thy step could 
not falter. 
Till o'er India's wide seas had advanced thy 
swift prow. 

In vain her fierce sun, with its cloudless efful- 
gence. 
Seemed arrows of death to shoot forth with 
each ray; 
Thy faith gave to fear and fatigue no indulgence, 
But on to the goal urged thy perilous way ! 

And, martyr of zeal ! thou e'en here wert rewarded. 
When the dark sons of India came round thee 
in throngs, 
While thee as a father they fondly regarded. 
Who taught them and blessed in their own na- 
tive tongues. 

When thou heard'st them, their faith's awful er- 
rors disclaiming. 
Profess the pure creed which the Saviour had 
given. 
Those moments thy mission's blest triumph pro- 
claiming, 
Gave joy which to thee seemed a foretaste of 
Heaven.t 

Still " On," cried the voice, and surrounding their 
altar, 

Trichonopoly's sons hailed thy labours of love : 
Ah me ! with no fear did thine accents then falter; 

No secret forebodings thy conscious heart move? 



Thou hadst ceased — having taught them what 
rock to rely on, 
And had doft the proud robes which to prelates 
belong, 
But the next robe for thee was the white robe of 
Zion* 
The next hymn thou heard'st was " the sera- 
phim's song." 

Here hushed be my lay for a far sweeter verse — 
Thy requiem I'll breathe in thy numbers alone, 

For the bard's votive oflering to hang on thy hearse, 
Should be formed of no language less sweet 
than thy own. 

t " Thou art gone to the grave, but we will not 
deplore thee, 
Since God was thy refuge, thy ransom, thy 
guide ; 
He gave thee, He took thee, and He will restore 
thee, 
And death has no sting, since the Saviour baa 
died." 



ANONYMOUS. 



How beautiful upon the mountains are the feet of him that 
bringcth good tidings, that publisheth peace; that bringeth 
good tidings of good, that publisheth salvation ! — Isaiah, lii. 7. 



How bright and glorious are the sun's first gleams 
Above yon blue horizon! — Darkness flies 
Before his presence. — Mountains, vallies, 
trees, 

Glow with resplendent beauty. — And the streams 

Reflect the lustre of his orient beams. 

So Heber shone — for unto him was given 

To spread the tidings of salvation round, 
Whilst heathen nations caught the joyful 
sound. 

And learned to kneel before the shrine of Heaven ; 

That "cross surmounted shrine," where Faith 
and Prayer 
Point to the crown of bliss, reserved there 

For those whom Jesus loves — but his bright sun 

Of glory set, ere yet its race was run. 

And he that bliss has gained — that crown has won ! 



* At first he refused tlie appointment, but, "after devout 
prayer" he accepted it, thinking it was his duty to do so. 

t When they gathered round liim on Easter-day evening to 
the number of thirteen hundred, and he blessed them in their 
native tongue, he exclaimed, " that he would gladly purchase 
that day with years of his lik."— Robinson's Sermon. 
2 



" He had scarcely put ofTliis robes in which he ofiiciated at 
the altar, when he was suddenly called away "to be clothed 
with immortality." — Robinson's Sermon. 

1 Written by Bishop Heber on the death of a friend Sea 
page 27. 



POETICAL WORKS 

op 

LORD BISHOP OF CALCUTTA. 



^alttiiint; 



A PRIZE POEM, RECITED IN THE THEATRE, OXFORD. 

IN THE YEAR MDCCCin. 



Rept of thy sons, amid thy foes forlorn, 
Mourn, widowed queen, forgotten Sion, mourn ! 
Is this thy place, sad City, this thy throne, 
Where the wild desert rears its craggy stone 1 
While suns unblest their angry lustre fling, 
And way-worn pilgrims seek the scanty spring? — 
Where now thy pomp, which kings with envy 

viewed 1 
Where now thy might, which all those kings sub- 
dued"? 
No martial myriads muster in thy gate ; 
No suppliant nations in thy Temple wait ; 
No prophet bards, thy glittering courts among, 
Wake the full lyre, and swell the tide of song : 
But lawless Force, and meagre Want is there, 
And the quick-darting eye of restless Fear ; 
While cold Oblivion, 'mid thy ruins laid, 
Folds his dank wing(l) beneath the ivy shade. 

Ye guardian saints! ye warrior sons of heaven,(2) 
To whose high care Judcea's state was given ! 
O wont of old your nightly watch to keep, 
A host of gods, on Sion's towery steep !(3) 
If e'er your secret footsteps linger still 
By Siloa's fount, or Tabor's echoing hill ; 
If e'er your song on Salem's glories dwell, 
And mourn the captive land you loved so well ; 
(For oft, 'tis said, in Kedron's palmy vale 
Mysterious harpings(4) swell the midnight gale, 
And, blest as balmy dews that Hermon cheer, 
Melt in soft cadence on the pilgrim's ear ;) 
Forgive, blest spirits, if a theme so high 
Mock the weak notes of mortal minstrelsy ! 
Yet, might your aid this anxious breast inspire 
With one faint spark of Milton's seraph fire, 
Then should my Muse(5) ascend with bolder flight, 
And wave her eagle-plumes exulting in the light. ' 



O happy once in heaven's peculiar love, 
Delight of men below, and saints above ! 
Though, Salem, now the spoiler's ruffian hand 
Has loosed his hell-hounds o'er thy wasted land : 
Though weak, and whelmed beneath the storms 

of fate, 
Thy house is left unto thee desolate ;(G) 
Though thy proud stones in cumbrous ruin fall, 
And seas of sand o'ertop thy mouldering wall ; 
Yet shall the Muse to Fancy's ardent view 
Each shadowy trace of faded pomp renew : 
And as the Seer(7) on Pisgah's topmost brow 
With glistening eye beheld the plain below, 
With prescient ardour drank the scented gale, 
And bade the opening glades of Canaan hail ; 
Her eagle eye shall scan the prospect wide, 
From Carmel's cliffs to Almotana's tide ;(8) 
The flinty waste, the cedar-tufted hill, 
The liquid health of smooth Ardeni's rill ; 
Tlie grot, where, by the watch-fire's evening blaze, 
The robber riots, or the hermit prays ;(9) 
Or, where the tempest rives the hoary stone, 
The wintry top of giant Lebanon. 

Fierce, hardy, proud, in conscious freedom bold, 
Those stormy seats the warrior Druses hold ;(10) 
From Norman blood their lofty line they trace, 
Their lion courage proves their generous race. 
They, only they, while all around them kneel 
In sullen homage to the Thracian steel, 
Teach their pale despot's waning moon tofear(ll) 
The patriot terrors of the mountain spear. 

Yes, valorous chiefs, while yet your sabres 
shine. 

The native guard of feeble Palestine, 
O, ever thus, by no vain boast dismayed, 
Defend the birthright of the cedar shade ! 



HEBER'S POEMS. 



What though no more for you th' obedient gale 
Swells the white bosom of the Tyrian sail ; 
Though now no more your glittering marts unfold 
Sidonian dyes and Lusitanian gold ;(12) 
Though not for you the pale and sickly slave 
Forgets the light in Ophir's wealthy cave ; 
Yet yours the lot, in proud contentment blest, 
Where cheerful labour leads to tranquil rest. 
No robber rage the ripening harvest knows ; 
And unrestrained the generous vintage flows :(13) 
Nor less your sons to manliest deeds aspire, 
And Asia's mountains glow with Spartan fire. 

So when, deep sinking in the rosy main, 
The western sun forsakes the Syrian plain, 
His watery rays refracted lustre shed. 
And pour their latest light on Carmel's head. 

Yet shines your praise, amid surrounding gloom, 
As the lone lamp that trembles in the tomb : 
For few the souls that spurn a tyrant's chain. 
And small the bounds of freedom's scanty reign. 
As the poor outcast on the cheerless wild, 
Arabia's parent,(14) clasped her fainting child. 
And wandered near the roof no more her home, 
Forbid.to linger, yet afraid to roam : 
My sorrowing Fancy quits the happier height, 
And southward throws her half-averted sight. 
For sad the scenes Jud sea's plains disclose, 
A dreary waste of undistinguished woes : 
See War untired his crimson pinions spread. 
And foul Revenge, that tramples on the dead I 
Lo, where from far the guarded fountainsshine,(1.5) 
Thy tents, Nebaioth, rise, and Kedar, thine !(1G) 
'T is yours the boast to mark the stranger's way, 
And spur your headlong chargers on the prey, 
Or rouse your nightly numbers from afar. 
And on the hamlet pour the waste of war ; 
Nor spare the hoary head, nor bid your eye 
Revere the sacred smile of infancy. (17) 
Such now the clans, whose fiery coursers feed 
Where waves on Kishon's bank the whispering 

reed ; 
And theirs the soil, where, curling to the skies,[(18) 
Smokes on Samaria's mount her scanty sacrifice. 
While Israel's sons, by scorpion curses driven. 
Outcasts of earth, and reprobate of heaven. 
Through the wide world in friendless exile stray. 
Remorse and shame sole comrades of their way, 
With dumb despair their country's wrong behold, 
And, dead to glory, only burn for gold ! 

O Thou, their Guide, their Father, and their Lord, 
Loved for thy mercies, for thy power adored ! 
If at thy name the waves forgot their force, [(19) 
And refluent Jordan sought his trembling source; 
If at thy name like sheep the mountains fled. 
And haughty Sirion bowed his marble head ; — 
To Israel's woes a pitying ear incline. 
And raise from earth thy long-neglected vine !(20) 
Her rifled fruits behold the heathen bear, 
And wild-wood boars her mangled clusters tear ! 



Was it for this she stretched her peopled reign 
From far Euphrates to the western main? 
For this, o'er many a hill her boughs she threw 
And her wide arms like goodly cedars grewl 
For this, proud Edom slept beneath her shade. 
And o'er the Arabian deep her branches played? 

O feeble boast of transitory power ! 
Vain, fruitless trust of Judah's happier hour! 
Not such their hope, when through the parted 

main 

The cloudy wonder led the warrior train : 
Not such their hope, when through the fields of 

night 

The torch of heaven diffused its friendly light: 
Not, when fierce Conquest urged the onward war, 
And hurled stern Canaan from his iron car: 
Nor, when five monarchs led to Gibeon's fight, 
In rude array, the harnessed Amorite :(21) 
Yes — in that hour, by mortal accents stayed. 
The lingering sun his fiery wheels delayed ; 
The moon, obedient, trembled at the sound. 
Curbed her pale car, and checked her mazy round! 

Let Sinai tell — for she beheld his might, 
And God's own darkness veiled her mystic height: 
(He, cherub-borne, upon the whirlwind rode, 
And the red mountain hke a furnace glowed:) 
Let Sinai tell — but who shall dare recite 
His praise, his power, — eternal, infinite 1 — 
Awe-struck I cease ; nor bid my strains aspire, 
Or serve his altar with unhallowed fire. (22) 
Such were the cares that watched o'er Israel's 
fate. 
And such the glories of their infant state. 
— Triumphant race! and did your power decay? 
Failed the bright promise of your early day 1 
No: — by that sword, which, red with heathen 

gore, 
A giant spoil, the stripling champion bore ; 
By him, the chief to farthest India known, 
The mighty master of the iv'ry throne ;(23) 
In heaven's own strength, high towering o'er her 

foes, 
Victorious Salem's lion banner rose : 
Before her footstool prostrate nations lay, 
And vassal tyrants crouched beneath her sway. 
— And he, the kingly sage, whose restless mind 
Through nature's mazes wandered unconfined ;(24) 
Who ev'ry bird, and beast, and insect knew. 
And spake of every plant that quaffs the dew; 
To him were known — so Hagar's offspring tell— 
The powerful sigil and the starry spell. 
The midnight call, hell's shadowy legions dread, 
And sounds that burst the slumbers of the dead. 
Hence all his might ; for who could these oppose"? 
And Tadmor thus, and Syrian Balbec rose.(25) 
Yet e'en the works of toiling Genii fall, 
And vain was Estakhar's enchanted wall. 
In frantic converse with the mournful wind, 
There oft the houseless Santon(26) rests reclined ; 



PALESTINE. 



Strange shapes he views, and drinks with won- 
dering ears 
The voices of the dead, and songs of other years. 

Such, the faint echo of departed praise, 
Still sound Arabia's legendary lays ; 
And thus their fabling bards delight to tell 
How lovely were thy tents, O Israel !(27) 

For thee his iv'ry load Behemoth bore.(28) 
And far Sofala teemed with golden ore ;(29) 
Thine all the arts that wait on wealth's increase, 
Or bask and wanton in tiie beam of peace. 
When Tyber slept beneath the cypress gloom, 
And silence held the lonely woods of Rome ; 
Or ere to Greece the biikler's skill was known, 
Or the light chisel brushed the Parian stone ; 
Yet here fair Science nursed her infant fire, 
Fanned by the artist aid of friendly Tyre. 
Then towered the palace, then in awful state 
The temple reared its everlasting gate. (30) 
No workman steel, no pond'rous axes rung ;(31) 
Like some tall palm the noiseless fabric sprung. 
Majestic silence ! — then the harp awoke. 
The cymbal clanged, the deep-voiced trumpet 

spoke ; 
And Salem spread her suppliant arms abroad, 
Viewed the descending flame, and blessed the pre- 
sent God !(32) 

Nor shrunk she then, when, raging deep and 
Joud, 
Beat o'er her soul the billows of the proud. (33) 
E'en they who, dragged to Shinar's fiery sand. 
Tilled with reluctant strength the stranger's land ; 
Who sadly told the slow-revolving years. 
And steeped the captive's bitter bread with tears ; 
Yet oft their hearts with kindling hopes would 

burn. 
Their destined triumphs, and their glad return, 
And their sad lyres, which, silent and unstrung, 
In mournful ranks on Babel's willovvs hung, 
Would oft awake to chant their future fame. 
And from the skies their ling'ring Saviour claim. 
His promised aid could every fear control ; 
This nerved and warrior's arm, this steeled the 
martyr's soul! 

Nor vain their hope : — Bright beaming through 
the sky. 
Burst in full blaze the Day-spring from on high ; 
Earth's utmost isles exulted at the sight, 
And crowding nations drank the orient light. 
Lo, star-led chiefs Assyrian odours bring. 
And bending Magi seek their infant King ! 
Marked ye, where, hov'ring o'er his radiant head, 
The dove's white wings celestial glory shed? 
Daughter of Sion ! virgin queen! rejoice! 
Clap the glad hand, and lift the exulting voice! 
He comes, — but not in regal splendour drest, 
The haughty diadem, the Tyrian vest ; 
Not armed in flame, all glorious from afar, 
Of hosts the chieftain, and the lord of war: 



Messiah comes: let furious discord cease: 
Be peace on earth before the Prince of Peace! 
Disease and anguish feel his blest control, 
And howling fiends release the tortured soul; 
The beams of gladness hell's dark caves illume, 
And Mercy broods above the distant gloom. 

Thou palsied earth, with noonday night o'er- 
spread ! 
Thou sick'ning sun, so dark, so deep, so red! 
Ye hov'ring ghosts, that throng the starless air. 
Why shakes the earth 1 why fades the light 1 de- 
clare ! 
Are those his limbs, with ruthless scourges tornl 
His brows, all bleeding with the twisted thornl 
His the pale form, the meek forgiving eye 
Raised from the cross in patient agony? 
— Be dark, thou sun — thou noonday night arise 
And hide, oh hide, the dreadful sacrifice! 

Ye faithful few, by bold affection led, 
Who round the Saviour's cross your sorrows shed, 
Not for his sake your tearful vigils keep ; — [(34) 
Weep for your country, for your children weep ! 
— Vengeance ! thy fiery wing their race pursued ; 
Thy thirsty poniard blushed with infant blood. 
Roused at thy call, and panting still for game, 
The bird of war, the Latian eagle came. 
Then Judah raged, by ruffian Discord led. 
Drunk with the steamy carnage of the dead ; - 
He saw his sons by dubious slaughter fall, 
And war without, and death within the wall. 
Wide-wasting Plague, gaunt Famine, mad De- 
spair, 
And dire Debate, and clamorous Strife were 

there : 
Love, strong as Death, retained his might no 

more. 
And the pale parent drank her children's gore. (35) 
Yet they, who wont to roam th' ensanguined plain, 
And spurn with fell delight their kindred slain ; 
E'en they, when, high above the dusty fight. 
Their burning Temple rose in lurid light, 
To their loved altars paid a parting groan, 
And in their country's woes forgot their own. 

As 'mid the cedar courts, and gates of gold. 
The trampled ranks in miry carnage rolled. 
To save their Temple every hand essayed. 
And with cold fingers grasped the feeble blade: 
Through their torn veins reviving fury ran, 
And life's last anger warmed the dying man! 

But heavier far the fettered captive's doom! 
To glut with sighs the iron ear of Rome : 
To swell, slow-pacing by the car's tall side, 
The stoic tyrant's philosophic pride ;(36) 
To flesh the lion's rav'nous jaws, or feel 
The sportive fury of the fencer's steel ; 
Or pant, deep plunged beneath the sultry mine, 
For the light gales of balmy Palestine. 

Ah ! fruitful now no more, an empty coast. 
She mourned her sons enslaved, her glories lost; 



HEBER'S POEMS. 



In her wide streets the lonely raven bred, 
There barked the wolf, and dire hyaenas fed. 
Yet midst her towery fanes, in ruin laid. 
The pilgrim saint his murmuring vespers paid; 
'T was his to climb the tufted rocks, and rpve 
The chequered twilight of the olive grove ; 
'T was his to bend beneath the sacred gloom, 
And wear with many a kiss Messiah's tomb : 
While forms celestial filled his tranced eye, 
The day-light dreams of pensive piety. 
O'er his still breast a tearful fervour stole. 
And softer sorrows charmed the mourner's soul. 

Oh, lives there one, who mocks his artless zeal ? 
Too proud to worship, and too wise to feel "? 
Be his the soul with wintry Reason blest, 
The dull, lethargic sovereign of the breast ! 
Be--his the life that creeps in dead repose, 
No joy that sparkles, and no tear that flows ![(37) 

Far other they who reared yon pompous shrine. 
And bade the rock with Parian marble shine.(o8) 
Then hallowed Peace renewed her wealthy reign. 
Then altars smoked, and Sion smiled again. 
There sculptured gold and costly gems were seen, 
And all the bounties of the British queen ; (39) 
There barb'rous kings their sandaled nations led. 
And steel-clad champions bowed the crested head. 
There, when her fiery race the desert poured. 
And pale Byzantium feared Medina's sword,(40) 
When coward Asia shook in trembling wo, 
And bent appalled before the Bactrian bow ; 
From the moist regions of the western star 
The wand'ring hermit waked the storm of war. (41) 
Their limbs all iron, and their souls all flame, 
A countless host, the red-cross warriors came: 
E'en hoary priests the sacred combat wage. 
And clothe in steel the palsied arm of age ; 
While beardless youths and tender maids assume 
The weighty morion and the glancing plume. (42) 
In sportive pride the warrior damsels wield 
The pond'rous falchion, and the sun-like shield. 
And start to see tl?eir armour's iron gleam 
Dance with blue lustre in Ta.baria's stream.(43) 

The blood-red banner floating o'er their van, 
All madly blithe the mingled myriads ran: 
Impatient Death beheld his destined food, 
And hovering vultures snuffed the scent of blood. 

Not such the numbers, nor the host so dread, 
By northern Brenn or Scythian Timur led, (44) 
Nor such the heart-inspiring zeal that bore 
United Greece to Phrygia's reedy shore I 
There Gaul's proud knights with boastful mien 

advance,(45) 
Form the long line,(46) and shake the cornel lance ; 
Here, linked with Thrace, in close battalions stand 
Ausonia's sons, a sofl inglorious band; 
There the stern Norman joins the Austrian train. 
And the dark tribes of late-reviving Spain ; 
Hero in black files, advancing firm and slow, 
Victorious Albion twangs the deadly bow: — 



Albion, — still prompt the captive's wrong to aid, 
And wield in freedom's cause the freeman's gene- 
rous blade ! 
Ye sainted spirits of the warrior dead, 
Whose giant force Britannia's armies led !(47) 
Whose bickering falchions, foremost in the fight, 
Still poured confusion on the Soldan's might; 
Lords of the biting axe and beamy spear, (48) 
Wide-conquering Edward, lion Richard, hear ! 
At Albion's call your crested pride resume. 
And burst the marble slumbers of the tomb ! 
Your sons behold, in arm, in heart the same, 
Still press the footsteps oLparental fame. 
To Salem still their generous aid supply, 
And pluck the palm of Syrian chivalry ! 

When he, from towery Malta's yielding isle. 
And the green waters of reluctant Nile, 
Th' apostate chief, — from Misraim's subject 

shore 
To Acre's walls his trophied banners bore ; 
When the pale desert marked his proud array, 
And Desolation hoped an ampler sway ; 
What hero then triumphant Gaul dismayed 1 
What arm repelled the victor renegade? 
Britannia's champion ! — bathed in hostile blood, 
High on the breach the dauntless seaman stood : 
Admiring Asia saw th' unequal fight, — 
E'en the pale crescent blessed the Christian's 

might. 
Oh day of death ! Oh thirst, beyond control, 
Of crimson conquest in th' invader's soul ! 
The slain, yet warm, by social footsteps trod, 
O'er the red moat supphed a panting road; 
O'er the red moat our conquering thunders flew, 
And loftier still the grisly rampire grew. 
While proudly glowed above the rescued tower 
The wavy cross that marked Britannia's power 

Yet still destruction sweeps the lonely plain 
And heroes lift the generous sword in vain. 
Still o'er her sky the clouds of anger roll, 
And God's revenge hangs heavy on her soul. 
Yet shall she rise ; — but not by war restored, 
Not built in murder, — planted by the sword. 
Yes, Salem, thou shalt rise : thy Father's aid 
Shall heal the wound his chastening hand has 

made; 
Shall judge the proud oppressor's ruthless sway, 
And burst his brazen bonds, and cast his cords 
away.(49) [(50) 

Then on your tops shall deathless verdure spring; 
Break forth, ye mountains, and, ye valleys, sing ! 
No more your thirsty rocks shall frown forlorn, 
The unbeliever's jest, the heathen's scorn ; 
The sultry sands shall tenfold harvests yield, 
And a new Eden deck the thorny field. 
E'en now, perchance, wide-waving o'er the land, 
That mighty Angel lifts his golden wand, 
Courts the bright vision of descending power,(51) 
Tells every gate, and measures every tower ;(52) 



PALESTINE. 



And chides the tardy seals that yet detain 
Thy Lion, Judah, from his destined reign! 

And who is He 1 the vast, the awful form,(53) 
Girt with the whirlwind, sandaled with the storml 
A western cloud around his limbs is spread, 
His crown a rainbow, and a sun his head. 
To highest heaven he lifts his kingly hand, 
And treads at once the ocean and the land ; 
And, hark ! his voice amid the thunder's roar. 
His dreadful voice, that time shall be no more! 

Lo! cherub hands the golden courts prepare, 
Lo ! thrones arise, and every saint is there ;(54) 
Earth's utmost bounds confess their awful sway. 
The mountains worship, and the isles obey; 
Nor sun nor moon they need, — nor day, nor night ; 
God is their temple, and the Lamb their light :(55) 
And shall not Israel's sons exulting come. 
Hail the glad beam, and claim their ancient home 1 
On David's throne shall David's offspring reign, 
And the dry bones be warm with life agairt!(56) 
Hark! white-robed crowds their deep hosannas 

raise, 
And the hoarse flood repeats the sound of praise ; 
Ten thousand harps attune the mystic song, 
Ten thousand thousand saints the strain prolong ; 
" Worthy the Lamb ! omnipotent to save, 
" Who died, who lives, triumphant o'er the grave !" 



NOTES. 

Nofte 1, page 1, col. 1. 

Folds his dank wing. 
Alluding to the usual manner in which Sleep 
is represented in ancient statues. See also Pindar, 
Pyth. I. V. 16, 17. xvao-trav vygov voitsv a/«g«." 

Note 2, page 1, col. 1. 

Ye warrior sons of lieaven. 
Authorities for these celestial warriors may be 
found. Josh. v. 13. 2 Kings vi. 2. 2 Mace. v. 3. 
Ibid. xi. Joseph. Ed. Huds. vi. p. 1282. et. alibi 
passim. 

Note 3, page 1, col. 1. 
Sion's towery steep. 
It is scarcely necessary to mention the lofty site 
of Jerusalem. " The hill of God is a high hill, 
even a high hill as the hill of Bashan." 

Note 4, page 1, col. 1. 
Mysterious harpings. 
See Sandys, and other travellers into Asia. 

Note 5, page 1, col. 1. 
Then should my Muse. 
Common practice, and the authority»of Milton, 
seem sufiicient to justify using this term as a per- 
sonification of poetry. 



Note 6, page 1, col. 2. 
Thy house is left unto thee desolate. 
St. Matthew, xxiv. 38. 



Note 7, page 1, col. 2. 
The seer. 



Moses. 



Note 8, page 1, col. 2. 
Almotana's tide. 
Almotana is the oriental name for the Dead 
Sea, as Ardeni is for Jordan. 

Note 9, page 1, col. 2. 

"Kie robber riots, or the hermit prays. 

The mountains of Palestine are full of caverns, 

which are generally occupied in one or other of 

the methods here mentioned. Vide Sandys, Maun- 

drel, and Calmet, Passim. 

Note 10, page 1, col. 2. 
Those stormy seats the warrior Druses hold. 
The untameable spirit, feodal customs, and af- 
fection for Europeans, which distinguished this 
extraordinary race, who boast themselves to be a 
remnant of the Crusaders, are well described in 
Pages. The account of their celebrated Emir, 
Facciardini, in Sandys, is also very interesting. 
Puget de S. Pierre compiled a small volume on 
their history ; Paris, 1763. 12mo. 

Note 11, page 1, col. 2. 
Teach their pale despot's waning moon to fear. 
" The Turkish Sultans, whose moon seems fast 
approaching to its wane." Sir W. Jones's 1st 
Discourse to the Asiatic Society. 

Note 12, page 2, col. 1. 

Sidonian dyes and Lusitanian gold. 
The gold of the Tyrians chiefly came from Por- 
tugal, which was probably their Tarshish. 

Note 13, page 2, col. 1. 
And unrestrained the generous vintage flows. 
In the southern parts of Palestine the inhabi- 
tants reap their corn green, as they are not sure 
that it will ever be allowed to come to maturity. 
The oppression to which the cultivators of vine- 
yards are subject throughout the Ottoman empire 
is well known. 

Note 14, page 2, col. 1. 
Arabia's parent 
Hagar. 

Note 15, page 2, col. L 
The guarded fountains shine. 
The watering places are generally beset with 
Arabs, who exact toll from all comers. See Har- 
mer and Pages. 



HEBER'S POEMS. 



Note 16, page 2, col. 1. 
Thy tents, Nebaioth, rise, and, Kedar, thine ! 
See Ammianus Marcellinus, lib. xiv. p. 43. 
Ed. Vales. 

Note 17. page 2j col. 1. 

Nor spare the hoary head, nor bid your eye 
Revere the sacred smile of infancy. 

" Thine eye shall not spare them." 

Note 18, page 2, col. 1. 
Smokes on Samaria's mount her scanty sacrifice. 
A miserable remnant of Samaritan worship still 
exists on Mount Gerizim. Maundrell relates his 
conversation with the high priest. 

Note 19, page 2, col. 1. 

And refluent Jordan sought his trembling source. 
Psalm cxiv. 

Note 30, page 2, col. 1. 

To Israel's woes a pitying ear incline, 

And raise from earth thy long-neglected vine ! 

See Psalm Ixxx. 8—14. 

Note 21, page 2, col. 2. 
The harnessed Amorite. 
Josh. X. 

Note 22, page 2, col. 2. 
Or serve his altar with unhallowed fire. 
Alluding to the fate of Nadab and Abihu. 

Note 23, page 2, col. 2. 
The mighty master of the iv'ry throne. 
Solomon. Ophir is by most geographers placed 
in the Aurea Chersonesus. See Tavernier and 
Raleigh. 

Note 24, page 2, col. 2. 
Through nature's mazes wandered unconfined. 
The Arabian mythology respecting Solomon is 
in itself so fascinating, is so illustrative of the pre- 
sent state of the country, and on the whole so 
agreeable to Scripture, that it was judged improper 
to omit all mention of it, though its wildness might 
have operated as an objection to making it a prin- 
cipal object in the poem. 

Note 25, page 2, col. 2. 
And Tadmor thus, and Syi-ian Balbec rose. 
Palmyra ("Tadmor in the desert") was really 
built by Solomon, (1 Kings ix. 2 Chron. viii.) and 
universal tradition marks him out, with great pro- 
bability, as the founder of Balbec. Estakhar is 
also attributed to him by the Arabs. See the Ro- 
mance of Vathek, and the various Travels into the 
East, more particularly Chardin's, in which, after 
a minute and interesting description of the majes- 



tic ruins of Estakhar, or Persepolis, the ancient 
capital of Persia, an account follows of the wild 
local traditions just alluded to. Vol. ii. p. 190. Ed. 
Amst. 1735, 4to. Vide also Sale's Koran ; D'Her- 
belot, Bibl. Orient, (article Soliman Ben Daoud); 
and the Arabian Nights' Entertainments, passim. 

Note 26, page 2, col. 2. 
Houseless Santon. 
It is well known that the Santo ns are real or af- 
fected madmen, pretending to extraordinary sanc- 
tity, who wander about the country, sleeping in 
caves or ruins. 

Note 27, page 3, col. 1. 
How lovely were thy tents, O Israel ! 
Numbers xxiv. 5. 

Note 28, page 3, col. 1. 
^ For thee his iv'ry load Behemoth bore. 
Behemoth is sometimes supposed to mean the 
elephant, in which sense it is here used. 

Note 29, page 3, col. 1. 

And far Sofala teemed with golden ore. 
An African port to the south of Bab-el -mandeb, 
celebrated for gold mines. 

Note 30, page 3, col. 1. 

The temple reared its everlasting gate. 
Psalm xxiv. 7. 

Note 31, page 3, col. 1. 

No workman steel, no pond'rous axes rung. 
" There was neither hammer, nor axe, nor any 
tool of iron, heard in the house while it was in 
building." 1 Kings vi. 7. 

Note 32, page 3, col. 1. 
Viewed the descending flame, and blessed the present God. 
" And when all the children of Israel saw hovT 
the fire came down, and the glory of the Lord up- 
on the house, they bowed themselves with their 
faces to the ground upon the pavement, and wor- 
shipped." 2 Chron. vii. 3. 

Note 33, page 3, col. 1. 
Beat o'er her soul the billows of the proud. 
Psalm cxxiv. 4. 

Note 34, page 3, col. 2. 
Weep for your country, for your children weep. 
Luke xxiii. 27, 28. 

Note 35, page 3, col. 2. 
And the pale parent drank her children's gore. 
Josephus vi, p. 1275. Ed. Huds. 

Note 36, page 3, col. 2. 

The stoic tyrant's philosophic pride. 
The Roman notions of humanity can not have 
been very exalted when they ascribed so large a 



PALESTINE. 



share to Titus. For the horrible details of his con- 
duct during the siege of Jerusalem and after its 
capture, the reader is referred to Josephus. When 
we learn that so many captives were crucified, that 

(Tw TO ^K>ld-0; ^iipU, Tl (ViXUTTirO TO(C (TavpOli KCtt 

QTO-upt rc/ic trcuuKo-iv ; and that after all was over, 
in cold blood and merriment, he celebrated his bro- 
ther's birthday ■ with similar sacrifices ; we can 
hardly doubt as to the nature of that untold crime, 
which disturbed the dying moments of the " dar- 
ling of the human race." After all, the cruelties 
of this man are probably softened in the high 
priest's narrative. The fall of Jerusalem nearly 
resembles that of Zaragoza, but it is a Morla who 
tells the tale. 

Note 37, page 4, col. 1. 
Yon pompous slirine. 
The temple of the Sepulchre. 

Note 38, page 4. col. 1. 

And bade the rock with Parian marble shine. 

See Cotovicus, p. 179, and from him Sandys. 

Note 39, page 4, col. 1. 
The British queen. 
St. Helena, who was, according to Camden, born 
at Colchester. See also Howcl's History of the 
World. 

Note 40, page 4, col. 1. 
And pale Byzantium reared Medina's sword. 
The invasions of the civilized parts of Asia by 
the Arabian and Turkish Mahometans. 

Note 41, page 4, col. 1. 
The wandering hermit waked the storm of war. 
Peter the hermit. The world has been so long 
accustomed to hear the Crusades considered as the 
height of phrenzy and injustice, tliat to undertake 
their defence might be perhaps a hazardous task. 
We must however recollect, that, had it not been 
for these extraordinary exertions of generous cou- 
rage, the whole of Europe would perhaps have 
fallen, and Christianity been buried in the ruins. 
It was not, as Voltaire has falsely or weakly as- 
serted, a conspiracy of robbers ; it was not an un- 
provoked attack on a distant and inoffensive nation ; 
it was a blow aimed at the heart of a most ])ower- 
ful and active enemy. Had not the Christian 
kingdoms of Asia been established as a check to 
the Mahometans, Italy, and the scanty remnant of 
Christianity in Spain, must again have fallen into 
their power ; and France herself have needed all 
the heroism and good fortune of a Charles Martel 
to deliver her from subjugation. 

Note 42, page 4, col. 1. 
While beardless youths and tender maids assume 
The weighty morion and the glancing plume. 
See Vertot. Hist. Chev. Malthe. liv. 1. 



Note 43, page 4, col. 1. 
Tabaria's stream. 
Tabaria (a corruption of Tiberias) is the name 
used for the Sea of Galilee in the old romances. 

Note 44, page 4, col. 1. 
By northern Brenn, or Scythian Timur led. 
Brennus, and Tamerlane. 

Note 45, page 4, col. 1. 
There Gaul's proud knights wiih boastful mien advance. 
The insolence of the French nobles twice caused 
the ruin of the army ; once by refusing to serve 
under Richard Ca3ur de Lion, and again by re- 
proacliing tiie English with cowardice in St. Louis's 
expedition to Egypt. See Knollee's History of the 
Turks. 

Note 46, page 4, col. 1. 
ForjTi the long line. 
The line {combat a la haye), according to Sir 
Walter Raleigh, was ciiaracteristic of French tac- 
tics; as the column {herse) was of the English. 
The English at Creci were drawn up thirty deep. 

Note 47, page 4, col. 2. 
Whose giant force Britannia's armies led. 
All the British nations served under the same 
banker. 

Sono gl' Inglesi sagiltarii ed hanno 
(iente con hn; ch'e piu vicina al polo, 
Questi da I'alie selve ii'suli manda 
La divisa dal mondo, uliima Irlanda. 

Tasso, Gierusal. lib. i. 44. 

Ireland and Scotland, it is scarcely necessary to 
observe, were synonymous. 

Note 48, page 4, col. 2. 
Lords of tlie biting axe and beamy spear. 
The axe of Richard was very famous. See 
Warton's Hist, of Anc. Poetry. 

Note 49, page 4, col. 2. 
And burst his brazen bonds, and cast his cords away. 
Psalm ii. 3. cvii. 16. 

Note 50, page 4. col. 2. 
Tlten on your tops shall deathless verdure spring. 
" I will multiply the fruit of the tree, and the in- 
crease of the field, that ye shall receive no more 
the reproach of famine among the heathen." — And 
they shall say. This land that was desolate is be- 
come hke the garden of Eden," &c. Ezek. xxxvi. 

Note 51, page 4, col. 2. 
Couitsthe bright vision of descending power. 
" That great city, the holy Jerusalem, descend- 
ing out of heaven from God, having the glory of 
God." Rev.xxi. 10. 



HEBER'S POEMS. 



Note 52, page 4, col. 2. 
Tells every gate and measures every tower, 
Ezekiel xl. 

Note 53, page 5, col. 1. 
And who is He % the vast, the awful form. 
Rev. X. 

Note 54, page 5, col. 1. 

Lo! thrones arise, and every saint is there. 
Rev. XX. 

Note 55, page 5, col. 1. 

God is their temple, and the Lamb their light. 
" And I saw no temple therein : for the Lord 



God Almighty and the Lamb are in the temple of 
it. And the city had no need of the sun, neither 
of the moon, to shine in it : for the glory of God 
did lighten it, and the Lamb is the light thereof" 
Rev. xxi. 22. 

Note 56, page 5, col. 1. 

And the dry bones be warm with Ufe again. 

" Thus saith the Lord God unto these bones, 
Behold I will cause breath to enter into you, and 
ye shall live." — " Then he said unto me. Son of 
man, these bones are the whole house of Israel." 
Ezek. xxxvii. 



LINES ON THE PRESENT WAR. 

WRITTEN IN 1809. 



ID. aVANDO. ACCIDERIT. NON. SATIS. AVDEO 
EFPARI. SiaVIDEM. NON. CLARIVS. MIHI 
PER. SACROS. TRIPODES. CERTA. REPERT. DEVS 
NEC. SERVAT. PENITVS. PIDEM 

avoD. SI. aviD. liceat. credere, adhvc. tamen 

NAM. LAEVVM. yONVIT. NON. PVERIT. PROCVL. 

aVAERENDVS. CELERI. aVI. PRGPERET. GRADV 

ET. GALLVM. REPRIMAT. PEROX 

PETRVS. CRINITVS. IN. CARMINE 
AD. BER. CARAPHAM. 



At that dread season when th' indignant North 
Poured to vain wars her tardy numbers forth, 
When Frederic bent his ear to Europe's cry. 
And fanned too late the flame of liberty ; 
By feverish hope oppressed, and anxious thought, 
In Dresden's grove the dewy cool I sought.(l) 
Through tangled boughs the broken moonshine 

played, 
And Elbe slept soft beneath his linden shade : — 
Yet slept not all ; — I heard the ceaseless jar, 
The rattling wagons, and the wheels of war ; 
The sounding lash, the march's mingled hum, 
And, lost and heard by fits, the languid drum ; 
O'er the near bridge the thundering hoofs that 

trode. 
And the far-distant fife that thrilled along the 

road. 
Yes, sweet it seems across some watery dell 
To catch the music of the pealing bell; 
And sweet to list, as on the beach we stray, 
The ship-boy's carol in the wealthy bay: 
But sweet no less, when Justice points the spear, 
Of martial wrath the glorious din to hear, 



To catch the war-note on the quivering gale, 
And bid the blood-red paths of conquest hail. 
Oh ! song of hope, too long delusive strain ! 
And hear we now thy flattering voice again? 
But late, alas ! I left thee cold and still. 
Stunned by the wrath of heaven, on Pratzen's 

hill,(2) 
Oh ! on that hill may no kind month renew 
The fertile rain, the sparkling summer dew ! 
Accursed of God, may those bleak summits tell 
The field of anger where the mighty fell. 
There youthful Faith and high-born Courage rest, 
And, red with slaughter, Freedom's humbled 

crest ;(3) 
There Europe, soiled with blood her tresses gray. 
And ancient Honour's shield — all vilely thrown 



Thus mused my soul, as in succession drear 
Rose each grim shape of Wrath and Doubt and 

Fear; 
Defeat and shame in grizzly vision passed, 
And Vengeance, bought with blood, and glorious 

Death the last. 



EUROPE. 



Then as my gaze their waving eagles met, 
And through the niglit each sparkUng l)ayonet, 
Still memory told how Austria's evil hour 
Had felt on Praga's field a Frederic's power, 
And Gallia's vaunting train,(4) and Mosco's 

horde. 
Had fleshed the maiden steel of Brunswic's sword. 
Oh! yet, I deemed, that Fate, by justice led, 
Might wreathe once more the veteran's silver head ; 
That Europe's ancient pride would-yet disdain 
The cumbrous sceptre of a single reign ; 
That conscious right would tenfold strength afford. 
And Heaven assist the patriot's holy sword. 
And look in mercy through the auspicious sky. 
To bless the saviour host of Germany. 

And are they dreams, these bodings, such as 

shed 
Their lonely comfort o'er the hermit's bed? 
And are they dreams? or can the Eternal Mind 
Care for a sparrow, yet neglect mankind 1 
Why, if the dubious battle own his power. 
And the red sabre, where he bids, devour, 
Why then can one the curse of worlds deride, 
And millions weep a tyrant's single pride? 

Thus sadly musing, far my footsteps strayed, 
Rapt in the visions of the Aonian maid. 
It was not she, whose lonely voice I hear 
Fall in soft whispers on my love-lorn ear ; 
My daily guest, who wont my steps to guide 
Through the green walks of scented even-tide, 
Or stretched with me in noonday ease along, 
To Hst the reaper's chaunt, or throstle's song: 
But she of loftier port; whose grave control 
Rules the fierce workings of the patriot's soul; 
She, whose high presence, o'er the midnight oil, 
With fame's bright promise cheers the student's 

toil; 
That same was she, whose ancient lore refined 
The sober hardihood of Sydney's mind. 
Borne on her wing, no more I seemed to rove 
By Dresden's glittering sjures, and linden grove ; 
No more the giant Elbe, all silver bright, 
Spread his broad bosom to the fair moonlight, 
While the still margent of his ample flood 
Bore the dark image of the Saxon wood — 
(Woods happy once, that heard the carols free 
Of rustic love, and cheerful industry; 
Now dull and joyless lie their alleys green, 
And silence marks the track where France has 

been.) 
Far other scenes than these my fancy viewed : 
Rocks robed in ice, a mountain solitude; 
Where on Helvetian hills, in godlike state, 
Alone and awful, Europe's Angel sate: 
Silent and stern he sate; then, bending low, 
Listened the ascending plaints of human wo. 
And waving as in grief his tovvery head, 
" Not yet, not yet the day of rest," he said; 



" It may not be. Destruction's gory wing 
Soars o'er the bamiers of the younger king. 
Too rashly brave, who seeks with single sway 
To stem the lava on its destined way. 
Poor, glittering warriors, only wont to know 
The bloodless pageant of a martial show; 
Nurselings of peace ; for fiercer fights prepare; 
And dread the step-dame sway of unaccustomed 

war! 
They fight, they bleed! — Oh ! had that blood been 

shed 
When Charles and Valour Austria's armies led; 
Had these stood forth the righteous cause to shield. 
When victory wavered on Moravia's field ; 
Then France had mourned her conquests made in 

vain, 
Her backward beaten ranks, and countless slain ; 
Then had the strength of Europe's freedom stood, 
And still the Rhine had rolled a German flood! 

" Oh! nursed in many a wile, and practised long, 
To spoil the poor, and cringe before the strong; 
To swell the victor's state, and hovering near, 
Like some base vulture in the battle's rear, 
To watch the carnage of the field, and share 
Each loathsome alms the prouder eagles spare : 
A curse is on thee Brandenburgh! the sound 
Of Poland's wailings drags thee to the ground; 
And, drunk with guilt, thy harlot lips shall know 
The bitter dregs of Austria's cup of wo. 

" Enough of vengeance! O'er the ensanguined 
plain 
I gaze and seek their numerous host in vain ; 
Gone like the locust band when whirlwinds bear 
Their flimsy regions through the waste of air. 
Enough of vengeance ! — By the glorious dead, 
Who bravely fell where youthful Lewis Ied;(5) 
By Blucher's sword in fiercest danger tried, 
And the true heart that burst when Brunswic died; 
By her whose charms the coldest zeal might 

warm, (6) 
The manliest firmness in the fliirest form — 
Save, Europe, save the remnant ! — Yet remains 
One glorious path to free the world from chains. 
Why, when your northern band in Eylau's wood 
Retreating struck, and tracked their course with 

blood. 
While one firm rock the floods of ruin stayed. 
Why, generous Austria, were thy wheels delayed? 
And Albion!" — Darker sorrow veiled his brow — 
" Friend of the friendless — Albion ! wliere artthou? 
Child of the Sea, whose wing-like sails are spread, 
The covering cherub of the ocean's bed!(7) 
The storm and tempest render peace to thee, 
And the wild-roaring waves a stern security. 
But hope not thou in Heaven's own strength to ride, 
Freedom's loved ark, o'er br^ad oppression's tide ; 
If virtue leave thee, if thy careless eye 
Glance in contempt on Europe's agony. 



10 



HEBER'S POEMS. 



Alas! where now the bands who wont to pour 
Their strong deliverance on th' Egyptian shore ? 
Wing, wing your course, a prostrate world to save, 
Triumphant squadrons of Trafalgar's wave. 

" And thou, blest star of Europe's darkest hour. 
Whose words were wisdom, and whose counsels 

power, 
Whom earth applauded through her peopled shores ! 
(Alas ! whom earth too early lost deplores : — ) 
Young without follies, without rashness bold, 
And greatly poor amidst a nation's gold ! 
In every veering gale of faction true, 
Untarnished Chatham's genuine child, adieu! 
Unlike our common suns, whose gradual ray 
Expands from twilight to intenser day. 
Thy blaze broke forth at once in full meridian sway, 
O, proved in danger ! not the fiercest flame 
Of Discord's rage thy constant soul could tame ; 
Not when, far-striding o'er thy palsied land, 
Gigantic Treason took his bolder stand ; 
JNot when wild Zeal, by murderous Faction led. 
On Wicklow's hills, her grass-green banner spread ; 
Or those stern conquerors of the restless wave 
Defied the native soil they wont to save. — 
Undaunted patriot ! in that dreadful hour, 
When pride and genius own a sterner power ; 
When the dimmed eyeball, and the struggling 

breath, 
And pain, and terror, mark advancing death; — 
Still in that breast thy country held her throne. 
Thy toil, thy fear, thy prayer were hers alone, 
Thy last faint effort hers, and hers thy parting 
groan. 

"Yes, from those lips while fainting nations drew 
Hope ever strong, and courage ever new ; — 
Yet, yet, I deemed, by that supporting hand 
Propped in her fall might Freedom's ruin stand ; 
And purged by fire, and stronger from the storm. 
Degraded Justice rear her reverend form. 
Now, hope, adieu ! — adieu the generous care 
To shield the weak, and tame the proud in war ! 
The golden chain of realms, when equal awe 
Poised the strong balance of impartial law ; 
When rival states as federate sisters shone, 
AUke, yet various, and though many, one ; 
And, bright and numerous as the spangled sky, 
Beamed each fair star of Europe's galaxy — 
All, all are gone, and after-time shall trace 
One boundless rule, one undistinguished race ; 
Twilight of worth, where nought remains to move 
The patriot's ardour, or the subject's love. 

" Behold, e'en now, while every manly lore 
And ev'ry muse forsakes my yielding shore ; 
Faint, vapid fruits of slavery's sickly clime. 
Each tinsel art succeeds, and harlot rhyme ! 
To gild the vase, to bid the purple spread 
In sightly foldings o'ef the Grecian bed, 
T heir mimic guard where sculptured gryphons keep, 
And Memphian idols watch o'er beauty's sleep ; 



To rouse the slumbering sparks of faint desire 
With the base tinkling of the Teian lyre ; 
While youth's enervate glance and gloating age 
Hang o'er the mazy waltz, or pageant stage ; 
Each wayward wish of sickly taste to please, 
The nightly revel and the noontide ease — 
These, Europe, are thy toils, thy trophies these ! 

" So, when wide-wasting hail, or whelming rain, 
Have strewed the bearded hope of golden grain, 
From the wet furrow, struggling to the skies. 
The tall, rank weeds in barren splendour rise; 
And strong, and towering o'er the mildewed ear, 
Uncomely flowers and baneful herbs appear ; 
The swain's rich toils to useless poppies yield. 
And Famine stalks along the purple field. 

"And thou, the poet's theme, the patriot's 

prayer ! 
Where, France, thy hopes, thy gilded promise 

where ; 
When o'er Montpelier's vines, and Jura's snows, 
All goodly bright, young Freedom's planet rose"?, 
What boots it now, (to our destruction brave,) 
How strong thine arm in warl a vahant slave 
What boots it now that wide thine eagles sail, 
Fanned by the flattering breath of conquest's gale"? 
What, that, high-piled within yon ample dome. 
The blood-bought treasures rest of Greece and 

Rome? 
Scourge of the highest, bolt in vengeance hurled 
By Heaven's dread justice on a shrinking world! 
Go, vanquished victor, bend thy proud helm down 
Before thy sullen tyrant's steely crown. 
For him in Afric's sands, and Poland's snows. 
Reared by thy toil the shadowy laurel grows ; 
And rank in German fields the harvest springs 
Of pageant councils and gbsequious kings. 
Such purple slaves, of glittering fetters vain. 
Linked the wide circuit of the Latian chain ; 
And slaves like these shall every tyrant find, 
To gild oppression, and debase mankind. 

" Oh ! live there yet whose hardy souls and high 
Peace bought with shame, and tranquil bonds defyl 
Who, driven from every shore, and lords in vain. 
Of the wide prison of the lonely main, 
Cling to their country's rights with freeborn zeal, 
More strong from every str^e, and patient of the 

steel 1 

Guiltless of chains, to them has Heaven consigned 
Th' entrusted cause of Europe and mankind! 
Or hope we yet in Sweden's martial snows 
That Freedom's weary foot may find repose 1 
No ; — from yon hermit shade, yon cypress dell. 
Where faintly peals the distant matin-bell ; 
Where bigot kings and tyrant priests had shed 
Their sleepy venom o'er his dreadful head ; 
He wakes, th' avenger — hark ! the hills around. 
Untamed Austria bids her clarion sound ; 
And many an ancient rock, and fleecy plain, 
And many a valiant heart returns the strain : 



EUROPE. 



11 



Heard by that shore, where Calpe's armed steep 
Flings its long shadow o'er th' Herculean deep, 
And Lucian glades, whose hoary poplars wave 
In soft, sad murmurs over Inez' grave. (8) 
They bless the call who dared the first withstand(9) 
The Moslem wasters of their bleeding land, 
When firm in faith, and red with slauglitered foes, 
Thy spear-encircled crown, Asturia(lO) rose. 
Nor these alone ; as loud tlie war-notes swell. 
La Mancha's shepherd quits his cork-built cell ; 
Albania's strength is there, and those who till 
(A hardy race !) Morena's scorched hill ; 
And in rude arms through wide Gallicia's reign, 
The swarthy vintage pours her vigorous train. 
" Saw ye those tribes 7 not theirs the plumed 
boast, 
The sightly trappings of a marshalled host ; 
No weeping nations curse their deadly skill, 
Expert in danger, and inured to kill : 
But theirs the kindling eye, the strenuous arm; 
Theirs the dark cheek, with patriot ardour warm, 
Unblanched by sluggard ease, or slavish fear. 
And proud and pure the blood that mantles there. 
Theirs from the birth is toil ; — o'er granite steep. 
And heathy wild, to guard the wandering sheep ; 
To urge the labouring mule, or bend the spear 
'Gainst the night-prowling wolf, or felon bear; 
The bull's hoarse rage in dreadful sport to mock, 
And meet with single sword his bellowing shock. 
Each martial chant they know, each manly rhyme. 
Rude, ancient lays of Spain's heroic time. (11) 
Of him in Xere's carnage fearless found, (12) 
(His glittering brows with hostile spear-heads 

bound ;) 
Of that chaste king whose hardy mountain 

train(13) 
O'erthrew the knightly race of Charlemagne ; 
And chiefest him who reared his banner tall(14) 
(Illustrious exile!) o'er Valencia's wall; 
Ungraced by kings, whose Moorish title rose 
The toil-earned homage of his wondering foes. 
" Yes ; every mould'ring tower and haunted 
flood, 
And the wild murmurs of the waving wood ; 
Each sandy waste, and orange-scented dell, 
And red Buraba's field, and Lugo, (15) tell, 
How their brave fathers fought, how thick the in- 
vaders fell. 
Oh ! virtue long forgot, or vainly tried, 
To glut a bigot's zeal, or tyrant's pride ; 
Condemned in distant climes to bleed and die 
'Mid the dank poisons of Tlascala's(16) sky; 
Or when stern Austria stretched her lawless 

reign, 

And spent in northern fights the flower of Spain ; 
Or war's hoarse furies yelled on Ysell's shore. 
And Alva's ruffian sword was drunk with gore, 
Yet dared not then Tlascala's chiefs withstand 
The lofty daring of Castilia's band; 



And weeping France her captive king(17) de- 
plored. 
And cursed the deathful point of Ebro's sword. 
Now, nerved with hope, their night of slavery past, 
Each heart beats high in freedom's buxom blast ; 
Lo ! Conquest calls, and beck'ning from afar, 
Uplifts his laurel wreath, and waves them on to 

war. 
— Wo to th' usurper then, who dares defy 
The sturdy wrath of rustic loyalty! 
Wo to the hireling bands, foredoomed to feel 
How strong in labour's horny hand the steel!(18) 
Behold e'en now, beneath yon Boetic skies 
Another Pavia bids her trophies rise ]^ 
E'en now in base disguise and friendly night 
Their robber-monarch speeds his secret flight; 
And with new zeal the fiery Lusians rear, 
(Roused by their neighbour's worth,) the long-ne- 
glected spear. 
' So when stern winter chills the April showers, 
And iron frost forbiils the timely flowers ; 
Oh! deem not thou the vigorous herb below 
Is crushed and dead beneath the incumbent snow; 
Such tardy suns shall wealthier harvests bring 
Than all the early smiles of flattering spring." 

Sweet as the martial trumpet's silver swell. 
On my charmed sense th' unearthly accents fell ; 
Me wonder held, and joy chastised by fear, 
As one who wished, yet hardly hoped to hear. 
" Spirit," I cried, "dread teacher,' yet declare, 
In that good fight, shall Albion's arm be there 1 
Can Albion, brave, and wise, and proud, refrain 
To hail a kindred soul, and link her fate with 

Spainl 
Too long her sons, estranged from war and toil, 
Have loathed the safety of the sea-girt isle ; 
And chid the waves which pent their fire within. 
As the stalled war-horse woos the battle's din. 
Oh, by this throbbing heart, this patriot glow. 
Which, well I feel, each English breast shall 

know ; 
Say, shall my country, roused from deadly sleep, 
Crowd with her hardy sons yon western steep ; 
And shall once more the star of France grow 

pale. 
And dim its beams in Roncesvallcs' vale'!(19) 
Or shall foul sloth and timid doubt conspire 
To mar our zeal, and waste our manly fire?" 

Still as I gazed, his lowering features spread, 
High rose his form, and darkness veiled his head ; 
Fast from his eyes the ruddy lightning broke, 
To heaven he reared bis arm, and thus he spoke : 

" Wo, trebly wo to their slow zeal who bore 
Delusive comfort to Iberia's shore! 
Who in mid conque.'?t, va-mting, yet dismayed. 
Now gave and now withdrew their laggard aid; 
Who, when each bosom glowed, each heart beat 

high, 
Chilled the pure stream of England's energy, 



12 



HEBER'S POEMS. 



And lost in courtly forms and blind delay 
The loitered hours of glory's short-lived day. 

" O peerless island, generous, bold, and free, 
Lost, ruined Albion, Europe mourns for thee! 
Hadst thou but known the hour in mercy given 
To stay thy doom, and ward the ire of Heaven; 
Bared in the cause of man thy warrior breast, 
And crushed on yonder hills th' approaching pest. 
Then had not murder sacked thy smiling plain, 
And wealth, and worth, and wisdom, all been vain. 

"Yet, yet awake! while fear and wonder wait. 
On the poised balance, trembling still with fate !(20) 
If aught their worth can plead, in battle tried, 
Who tinged with slaughter Tajo's curdling tide; 
(What time base truce the wheels of war could 

stay, 
And the weak victor fiung his wreath away ;) — 
Or theirs, who, doled in scanty bands afar, 
Waged without hope the disproportioned war, 
And cheerly still, and patient of distress, 
Led their forwasted files on numbers number- 
less !(21) 
" Yes, through the march of many a weary day. 
As yon dark column toils its seaward way; 
As bare, and shrinking from th' inclement sky, 
The languid soldier bends him down to die ; 
As o'er those helpless limbs, by murder gored, 
The base pursuer waves his weaker sword, 
And, trod to earth, by trampling thousands pressed. 
The horse-hoof glances from that mangled breast; 
E'en in that hour his hope to England flies. 
And fame and vengeance fire his closing eyes. 
"Oh! if such hope can plead, or his, whose 
bier 
Drew from his conquering host their latest tear ; 
Whose skill, whose matchless valour, gilded flight ; 
Entombed in foreign dust, a hasty soldier's rite ; — 
Oh ! rouse thee yet to conquer and to save. 
And Wisdom guide the sword which Justice gave ! 

" And yet the end is not ! from yonder towers 
While one Saguntum(22) mocks the victor's 

powers ; 
While one brave heart defies a servile chain, 
And one true soldier wields. a lance for Spain; 
Trust not, vain tyrant, though thy spoiler band 
In tenfold myriads darken half the land ; 
(Vast as that power, against whose impious lord 
Bethulia's matron(23) shook the niglitly sword ;) 
Though ruth and fear thy woundless soul defy, 
And fatal genius fire thy martial eye ; 
Yet trust not here o'er yielding realms to roam, 
Or cheaply bear a bloodless laurel home ! 

"No! by His viewless arm whose righteous 
care 
Defends the orphan's tear, the poor man's prayer; 
Who, Lord of nature, o'er this changeful ball 
Decrees the rise of empires, and the fall ; 
Wondrous in all his ways, unsee^, unknown,(24) 
Who treads the wine-press of the world alone ; 



And robed in darkness, and surrounding fears, 
Speeds on their destined road the march of years ! 
No! — shall yon eagle, from the snare set free, 
Stoop to thy wrist, or cower his wing for thee 1 
And shall it tame despair, thy strong control, 
Or quench a nation's still reviving soul? — 
Go, bid the force of countless bands conspire 
To curb the wandering wind, or grasp the fire ! 
Cast thy vain fetters on the troublous sea ! — 
But Spain, the brave, the virtuous, shall be free." 



NOTES. 

Note 1, page 8, col. 1. 
In Dresden's grove the dewy cool I sought. 

The opening lines of this poem were really com- 
posed in the situation (the Park of Dresden), and 
under the influence of the feehngs, which they 
attempt to describe. The disastrous issue of King 
Frederic's campaign took away from the author 
all inclination to continue them, and they remained 
neglected till the hopes of Europe were again re- 
vived by the illustrious efforts of the Spanish people. 

Note 3, page 8, col. 3. 
Pratzen's hill. 
The hill of Pratzen was the point most obsti- 
nately contested in the great battle which has 
taken its name from the neighbouring town of 
Austerlitz; and here the most dreadful slaughter 
took place, both of French and Russians. The 
author had, a few weeks before he wrote the 
above, visited every part of this celebrated field. 

Note 3, page 8, col. 3. 
And, red with slaughter, Freedom's humble crest. ' 
It is necessary perhaps to mention, that, by 
freedom, in this and in other passages of the pre- 
sent poem, political liberty is understood in oppo- 
sition to the usurpation of any single European 
state. In the particular instance of Spain, how- 
ever, it is a hope which the author has not yet 
seen reason to abandon, that a struggle so nobly 
maintained by popular energy, must terminate in 
the establishment not only of national independ- 
ence, but of civil and religious liberty. 

Note 4, page 9, col. 1. 
Gallia's vaunting train. 
The confidence and shameful luxury of the 
French nobles, during the seven years' war, are 
very sarcastically noticed by Templeman. 

Note 5, page 9, col. 2. 
Wliere youthful Lewis led. 
Prince Lewis Ferdinand of Prussia, who fell 
gloriously with almost the whole of his regiment. 



EUROPE. 



13 



Note 6, page 9, col. 2. 
By her whose charms, &c. 
The Clueen of Prussia; beautiful, unfortunate, 
and unsubdued by the severest reverses. 

Note 7, page 9, col. 2. 
The covering cherub, &c. 
" Thou art the anointed cherub that coverest."— 
Addressed to Tyre, by Ezekiel, xxviii. 14. 

Note 8, page 11, col. 1. 
Inez' grave. 
Inez de Castro, the beloved mistress of the Infant 
Don Pedro, sonof Alphonso IV. King of Portugal, 
and stabbed by the orders, and, according to Ca- 
moens, in the presence of that monarch. A foun- 
tain near Coimbra, the scene of their loves and 
misfortunes, is still pointed out by tradition, and 
called Amores. — De la Cledc, Hist, de Portugalle, 
4to. torn. i. page 282-7: — and Camoens' Lusiad, 
canto 3, stanza cxxxv. 

Note 9, page 11, col 1. 

^Who dared the first withstand 

The Moslem waters of their bleeding land. 

The Asturians, who under Pelagius first op- 
posed the career of Mahometan success. 

Note 10, page 11, col. 1. 
Thy spear-encircled crown, Asturia. 
" La couronne de fer de Dom Pelage, — cette 
couronne si simple mais si glorieuse, dont chaque 
fleuron este 'forme du fer d'une lance arrachce 
aux Chevaliers Maures que se heros avoit fait 
tomber sous ses coups." — ' Roman de Dom Ursino 
le Navarin, Tressan, torn. ix. 52. 

Note 11, page 11, col. 1. 

Rude ancient lays of Spain's heroic time. 

See the two elegant specimens given by Bishop 

Percy in his Reliques; and the more accurate 

translations of Mr. Rodd in his Civil Wars of 

Grenada. 

Note 12, page 11, col. 1. 
Him in Xeres' carnage fearless found. 
The Gothic monarchy in Spain was overthrown 
by the Mussulmans at the battle of Xeres, the 
Christian army being defeated with dreadful 
slaughter, and the death of their King, the un- 
happy and licentious Roderigo. Pelagius assem- 
bled the small band of those fugitives who despised 
submission, amid the mountains of the Asturias, 
under the name of King of Oviedo. 

Note 13, page, 11, col. 1. 
Of that chaste king, &c. 

Alonso, surnamed the Chaste, with ample rea- 
son, if we believe his historians ; who defeated, ac- 



cording to the Spanish romances, and the graver 
authority of Mariana, the whole force of Charle- 
magne and the twelve peers of France at Ronces- 
valles. Bertrand del Carpio, the son of Alonzo's 
sister, Ximena, was his general; and according to 
Don duixote (no incompetent authority on such 
a subject) put the celebrated Ordando to the same 
death as Hercules inflicted on Antaeus. His rea- 
son was, that the nephew of Charlemagne was 
enchanted, and like Achilles only vulnerable in 
the heel, to guard which he wore always iron 
shoes. See Mariana, 1. vii. c. xi, ; Don Gluixote, 
book i. c. 1. ; and the notes on Mr. Southey's 
Chronicle of the Cid ; a work replete with power- 
ful description, and knowledge of ancient history 
and manners, and which adds a new wreath to 
one, who "nullum fere scribendi genus intactum 
reliquit, nullum quod tetigit non ornavit." 

Note 14, page 11, col. 1. 

Chiefest him who reared his banner tall, &c. 
Rodrigo Diaz, of Bivar, surnamed the Cid by 
the Moors. — See Mr. Southey's Chronicle 

Note 15, page 11, col. 1. 
Red Buraba's field, and Lugo — 
Buraba and Lugo were renowned scenes of 
Spanish victories over the Moors, in the reigns 
of Bermudo, or, as his name is Latinized, Vere- 
mundus, and Alonso the Chaste. Of Lugo the 
British have since obtained a melancholy know- 
ledge. 

Note 16, page 11, col. 1. 

TIascala. 
An extensive district of Mexico ; its inhabitants 
were the first Indians who submitted to the Spa- 
niards under Cortez. 

Note 17, page 11, col. 2. 
Her captive king. 
Francis I. taken prisoner at the battle of Pavia. 

Note 18, page 11, col. 2. 
Yon Boeotic skiea. 
Andalusia forms a part of the ancient Hispania 
Boetica. 

Note 18, page 11, col. 2. 
Roncesvalles' vale. 
See the former note on Alonso the Chaste. 

Note 20, page 12, col. 1. 
The poised balance trembling still with fate. 
This line is imitated from one of Mr. Roscoe's 
spirited verses on the commencement of the French 
revolution. 



14 



HEBER'S POEMS. 



Note 21, page 12, col. 1. 

Numbers numberless. 
"He looked and saw what numbers numberless." 

Milton, Paradise Regained. 

Note 22, page 12, col. 1. 

One Saguntum. 

The ancient siege of Saguntum has been now 

rivalled by Zaragoza. The author is happy to 

refer his readers to the interesting narrative of his 

friend Mr. Vaughan. 



Note 23, page 12, col. 1. 

Bethulia's matron. 



Judith. 



Note 24, page 12, col 1. 

Wlio treads the wine-press of the world alone, 

" I have trodden the wine-press alone, and of 
the people there was none with me, for I will tread 
them in mine anger, and trample them in my 
fury." — Isaiah Ixiii. .3. 



WRITTEN FOR THE WEEKLY CHURCH SERVICE 

OF THE YEAR. 



Several of these hyrnns were originally published in the I 
Christian Observer, in the years 1811 and 1812, and were 
then accompanied by the following prefatory notice, which it 
is thought due to the author, should be here preserved. 

" The following Hymns are part of an intended series, ap- 
propriate to the Sundays, and principal holidays of the year ; 
connected in some degree with their particular Collects and 
Gospels, and designed to be sung between the Nicene Creed 
and the Sermon. The effect of an arrangement of this kind, 
though only partially adopted, is very striking in the Romish 
liturgy ; and its place should seem to be imperfectly supplied 
by a few verses of a Psalm, entirely unconnected with the 
peculiar devotions of the day, and selected at the discretion of 
a clerk or organist. On the merits of the present imperfect 
essays, the author is unatlectedly diffident ; and as his labours 
are intended for the use of his own congregation, he will be 
thankful for any suggestion which may advance or correct 
them. In one respect, at least, he hopes the following poems 
will not be found reprehensible ; — no fulsome or indecorous 
language lias been knowingly adopted : no erotic addresses to 
him whom no unclean lip can approach, no allegory ill un- 
derstood, and worse applied. It is not enough, in his opinion, 
to object to such expressions that they are fanatical ; they 
are positively profane. When our Saviour was on earth and 
in great humility conversant with mankind ; when he sat at 
the tables, and washed the feet, and healed the diseases of his 
creatures; yet did not his disciples give him any more fami- 
liar name than Master or Lord. And now at the right hand 
of his Father's majesty, shall we address him with ditties of 
embraces and passion, or language which it would be dis- 
graceful in an earthly sovereign to endure 7 Such expressions, 
it is said, are taken from Scripture ; but even if the original 
application, which is often doubtful, were clearly and un- 
equivocally ascertained, yet, though the collective Christian 
church may very properly be personified as the spouse of 
Christ, an application of such language to individual believers 
is as dangerous as it is absurd and unauthorized. Nor is it 
going loo far to assert, that the brutalities of a common swearer 
can hardly bring religion into more sure contempt, or more 
scandalously profane the Name which is above every name 
In heaven and earth, than certain epithets applied to Christ in 
our popular collections of religious poetry." 

Bishop Heber subsequently arranged these hymns, with 
some others by various writers, in a regular series adapted to 
the services of the Church of England throughout the year, 
and it was his intention to publish them soon after his arrival 



in India ; but the arduous duties of his station left little time, 
during the short life there allotted to him, forany employment 
not immediately connected with his diocese. This arrange- 
ment of them has been published in England since his death, 
and republished in this country. 



ADVENT SUNDAY. 

Matt. xxi. 

HosANNA to the living Lord ! 
Hosanna to the incarnate Word! 
To Christ, Creator, Saviour, King, 
Let earth, let heaven, Hosanna sing! 

Hosanna! Lord! Hosanna in the highest! 

Hosanna, Lord ! thine angels cry ; 
Hosanna, Lord! thy saints reply; 
Above, beneath us, and around, 
The dead and living swell the sound ; 
Hosanna! Lord! Hosanna in the highest! 

Oh, Saviour ! with protecting care, 
Return to this thy house of prayer! 
Assembled in thy sacred name. 
Where we thy parting promise claim 

Hosanna! Lord! Hosanna in the highest ! 

But chiefest, in our cleansed breast, 
Eternal ! bid thy spirit rest, 
And make our secret soul to be 
A temple pure, and worthy thee ! 

Hosanna! Lord! Hosanna in the highest! 

So, in the last and dreadful day, 
When earth and heaven shall melt away, 
Thy flock, redeemed from sinful stain, 
Shall swell the sound of praise again, 
Hosanna! Lord! Hosanna in the highest ! 



HYMNS. 



15 



SECOND SUNDAY IN ADVENT. 

John i. 

The Lord will come ! the earth shall quake, 
The hills their fixed seat forsake ; 
And, withering, from the vault of night 
The stars withdraw their feeble light. 

The Lord will come ! but not the same 

As once in lowly form he came, 

A silent lamb to slaughter led, 

The bruised, the suffering, and the dead. 

The Lord will come ! a dreadful form. 
With wreath of flame, and robe of storm, 
On cherub wings, and wings of wind. 
Anointed Judge of human-kind ! 

Can this be Thee who wont to stray 
A pilgrim on the world's highway ; 
By power oppressed and mocked by pride 1 
Oh, God ! is this the crucified? 

Go, tyrants ! to the rocks complain ! 
Go, seek the mountain's cleft in vain ! 
But faith, victorious o'er the tomb. 
Shall sing for joy — the Lord is come ! 



SECOND SUNDAY IN ADVENT. 
Luke xxi. 

In the sun and moon and stars 
Signs and wonders there shall be; 

Earth shall quake with inward wars, 
Nations with perplexity. 

Soon shall ocean's hoary deep. 

Tossed with stronger tempests, rise : 

Darker storms the mountain sweep. 
Redder lightning rend the skies. 

Evil thoughts shall shake the proud, 
Racking doubt and restless fear ; 

And amid the thunder cloud 
Shall the Judge of men appear. 

But though from that awful face 

Heaven shall fade and earth shall fly, 

Fear not ye, his chosen race. 
Your redemption draweth nigh ! 



THIRD SUNDAY IN ADVENT. 

Matt. xi. 

Oh, Saviour, is thy promise fled? 

No longer might thy grace endure. 
To heal the sick and raise the dead. 

And preach thy gospel to the poor 1 
3 



Come, Jesus ! come ! return again ; 

With brighter beam thy servants bless, 
Who long to feel thy perfect reign, 

And share thy kingdom's happiness ! 

A feeble race, by passion driven. 
In darkness and in doubt we roam, 

And Hft our anxious eyes to Heaven, 
Our hope, our harbour, and our home ! 

Yet mid the wild and wint'ry gale, 
When Death rides darkly o'er the sea, 

And strength and earthly daring fail, 
Our prayers. Redeemer! rest on Thee! 

Come, Jesus ! come ! and, as of yore 
The prophet went to clear thy way, 

A harbinger thy feet before, 

A dawning to thy brighter day: 

So now my grace with heavenly shower 
Our stony hearts for truth prepare ; 

Sow in our souls the seed of power. 

Then come and reap thy harvest there I 



THE FOURTH SUNDAY IN ADVENT. 

The world is grown old, and her pleasures are 

past; 
The world is grown old, and her form may not last ; 
The world is grown old, and trembles for fear; 
For sorrows abound and judgment is near ! 

The sun in the heaven is languid and pale ; 
And feeble and few are the fruits of the vale ; 
And the hearts of the nations fail them for fear, 
For the world is grown old, and judgment is near! 

The king on his throne, the bride in her bower, 
The children of pleasure all feel the sad hour; 
The roses are faded, and tasteless the cheer, 
For the world is grown old, and judgment is near ! 

The world is grown old ! — but should we complain, 
Who have tried her and know that her promise is 

vaini 
Our heart is in heaven, our home is not here, 
And we look for our crown when judgment is 

near! 



CHRISTMAS DAY. 

Oh, Saviour, whom this holy morn 
Gave to our world below ; 

To mortal want and labour born, 
And more than mortal wo I 

Incarnate Word ! by every grief, 
By each temptation tried. 

Who Uved to yield our ills relief, 
And to redeem us died ! 



16 



HEBER'S POEMS. 



If gaily clothed and proudly fed, 
In dangerous wealth we dwell, 

Remind us of thy manger bed, 
And lowly cottage cell ! 

If prest by poverty severe, 

In envious want we pine. 
Oh may thy spirit whisper near, 

How poor a lot was thine ! 

Through fickle fortune's various scene 

From sin preserve us free ! 
Like us thou hast a mourner been, 

May we rejoice with Thee ! 



ST. STEPHEN'S DAY. 

The Son of God goes forth to war, 

A kingly crown to gain ; 
His blood-red banner streams afar ! 

Who follows in his train 1 
Who best can drink his cup of wo. 

Triumphant over pain, 
Who patient bears his cross below, 

He follows in his train ! 

The martyr first, whose eagle eye 

Could pierce beyond the grave ; 
Who saw his Master in the sky. 

And called on him to save. 
Like Him, with pardon on his tongue 

In midst of mortal pain. 
He prayed for them that did the wrong j 

Who follows in his train 1 

A glorious band, the chosen few, 

On whom the spirit came ; 
Twelve valiant saints, their hope they knew, 

And mocked the cross and flame. 
They met the tyrant's brandished steel, 

The lion's gory mane : 
They bowed their necks the death to feel ! ' 

Who follows in their train 1 

A noble army — men and boys, 

The matron and the maid, 
Around the Saviour's throne rejoice,- 

In robes of light arrayed. 
They climbed the steep ascent of Heaven, 

Through peril, toil, and pain ! 
Oh, God ! to us may grace be given 

To follow in their train! 



ST. JOHN THE EVANGELIST'S DAY. 

Oh, God ! who gav'st thy servant grace, 

Amid the storms of life distrest, 
To look on thine incarnate face, 

And lean on thy protecting breast : 



To see the light that dimly shone, 
Eclipsed for us in sorrow pale, 

Pure Image of the Eternal One ! 

Through shadows of thy mortal veil ! 

Be ours, oh, King of Mercy ! still 
To feel thy presence from above. 

And in thy word, and in thy will. 

To hear thy voice and know thjQove; 

And when the toils of life are done. 
And nature waits thy dread decree, 

To find our rest beneath thy throne. 
And look, in humble hope, to Thee I 



INNOCENT'S DAY. 

Oh weep not o'er thy children's tomb, 

Oh, Rachel, weep not so ! 
The bud is cropt by martyrdom 

The flower in heaven shall blow ! 

Firstlings of faith ! the murderer's knife 
Has missed its deadliest aim : 

The God for whom they gave their life, 
For them to suffer came ! 

Though feeble were their days and few. 

Baptized in blood and pain. 
He knows them, whom they never knew. 

And they shall live again. 

Then weep not o'er thy children's tomb. 

Oh, Rachel, weep not so ! 
The bud is cropt by martyrdom, 

The flower in heaven shall blow I 



SUNDAY AFTER CHRISTMAS ; OR 
CIRCUMCISION. 

Lord of mercy and of might ! 
Of mankind the life and light ! 
Maker, teacher infinite ! 

Jesus ! hear and save ! 

Who, when sin's tremendous doom 
Gave Creation to the tomb. 
Didst not scorn the Virgin's womb, 
Jesus! hear and save! 

Mighty monarch ! Saviour mild ! 
Humbled to a mortal child. 
Captive, beaten, bound, reviled, 

Jesus ! hear and save i 

Throned above celestial things. 
Borne aloft on angel's wings, 
Lord of Lords, and King of kings ! 
Jesus ! hear and Save ! 



HYMNS. 



17 



Who shall yet return from high, 
Robed in might and majesty, 
Hear us ! help us when we cry ! 

Jesus ! hear and save ! 



EPIPHANY. 

Brightest and best of the sons of the morning ! 

Dawn on our darkness and lend us thine aid ! 
Star of the East, the horizon adorning. 

Guide where our infant Redeemer is laid '. 

Cold on his cradle the dew drops are shining, 
Low Ues his head with the beasts of the stall, 

Angels adore him in slumber reclining, 
Maker and Monarch and Saviour of all ! 

Say, shall we yield him, in costly devotion, 
Odours of Edom and offerings divine 1 

Gems of the mountain and pearls of the ocean. 
Myrrh from the forest or gold from the mine 1 

Vainly we offer each ample oblation ; 

Vainly with gifts would his favour secure : 
Richer by far is the heart's adoration ; 

Dearer to God are the prayers of the poor. 

Brightest and best of the sons of the morning ! 

Dawn on our darkness and lend us thine aid ! 
Star of the East, the horizon adorning, 

Guide where our infant Redeemer is laid ! 



FIRST SUNDAY AFTER EPIPHANY. 



Abashed be all the boast of age ! 

Be hoary learning dumb ! 
Expounder of the mystic page, 

Behold an Infant come ! 

Oh, Wisdom, whose unfading power 

Beside th' Eternal stood. 
To frame, in nature's earliest hour, 

The land, the sky, the flood ; 

Yet didst not Thou disdain awhile 

An infant form to wear ; 
To bless thy mother with a smile. 

And lisp thy faltered prayer. 

But, in thy Father's own abode. 
With Israel's elders round. 

Conversing high with Israel's God, 
Thy chiefest joy was found. 

So may our youth adore thy name ! 

And, Saviour, deign to bless 
With fostering grace the timid flame 

Of early holiness ! 



FIRST SUNDAY AFTER EPIPHANY. 

By cool Siloam's shady rill 

How sweet the lily grows ! 
How sweet the breath beneath the hill 

Of Sharon's dewy rose ! 

Lo ! such the child whose early feet 
The paths of peace have trod ; 

Whose secret heart, with influence sweet, 
Is upward drawn to God ! 

By cool Siloam's shady rill 

The lily must decay ; 
The rose that blooms beneath the hill 

Must shortly fade away. 

And soon, too soon, the wint'ry hour 

Of man's maturer age 
Will shake the soul with sorrow's power, 

And stormy passion's rage ! 

O Thou, whose infant feet were found 

Within thy Father's shrine ! 
Whcse years, with changeless virtue crowned, 

Were all alike divine. 

Dependent on thy bounteous breath, 

We seek thy grace alone. 
In childhood, manhood, age and death, 

To keep us still thine own ! 



SECOND SUNDAY AFTER EPIPHANY. 

Oh, hand of bounty, largely spread. 
By whom our every want is fed, 
Whate'er we touch, or taste, or see. 
We owe them all, oh Lord ! to Thee; 
The corn, the oil, the purple wine. 
Are all thy gifts, and only thine ! 

The stream thy word to nectar dyed, 
The bread thy blessing multiplied. 
The stormy wind, the whelming flood, 
That silent at thy mandate stood. 
How well they knew thy voice divine. 
Whose works they were, and only thine ! 

Though now no more on earth we trace 
Thy footsteps of celestial grace, 
Obedient to tny word and will 
We seek thy daily mercy still ; 
Its blessed beams around us shine, 
And thine we are, and only thine ! 



FOR THE SAME. 

Incarnate Word, who, wont to dwell 
In lowly shape and cottage cell, 
Didst not refuse a guest to be 
At Cana's poor festivity : 



18 



HEBER'S POEMS. 



Oh, when our soul from care is free, 
Then, Saviour, may we think on Thee, 
And seated at the festal board, 
In Fancy's eye behold the Lord.^ 

Then may we seem, in Fancy's ear, 
Thy manna-dropping tongue to hear. 
And think, — even now, thy searching gaze 
Each secret of our soul surveys ! 

So may such joy, chastised and pure. 
Beyond the bounds of earth endure ; 
Nor pleasure in the wounded mind 
Shall leave a rankhng sting behind ! 



FOR. THE SAME. 

When on her Maker's bosom 
The new-born earth was laid, 

And nature's opening blossom 
Its fairest bloom displayed ; 

"When all with fruit and flowers 
The laughing soil was drest, 

And Eden's fragrant bowers 
Received their human guest ; 

No sin his face defiling. 
The heir of Nature stood, 

And God, benignly smiling, 
Beheld that all was good ! 

Yet in that hour of blessing, 
A single want was known ; 

A wish the heart distressing ; 
For Adam was alone ! 

Oh, God of pure affection ! 

By men and saints adored. 
Who gavest thy protection 

To Cana's nuptial board. 

May such thy bounties ever 
To wedded love be shown, 

And no rude hand dissever 

Whom thou hast linked in one- 



THIRD SUNDAY AFTER EPIPHANY. 
Matt, viii. 

Lord ! whose love, in power excelling. 

Washed the leper's stain away. 
Jesus ! from thy heavenly dwelling, 

Hear us, help us, when we pray ! 

Prom the filth of vice and folly. 

From infuriate passion's rage, 
Evil thoughts and hopes unholy, 

Heedless youth and selfish age ; 



From the lusts whose deep pollutions 
Adam's ancient taint disclose. 

From the tempter's dark intrusions, 
Restless doubt and blind repose; 

From the miser's cursed treasure. 
From the drunkard's jest obscene. 

From the world, its pomp and pleasure, 
Jesus ! Master ! make us clean ! 



FOURTH SUNDAY AFTER EPI- 
PHANY. 

When through the torn sail the wild tempest is 
streaming, 

When o'er the dark wave the red lightning is 
gleaming. 

Nor hope lends a ray the poor seamen to cherish. 

We fly to our Maker — " Help, Lord ! or we per- 
ish !" 

Oh, Jesus ! once tossed on the breast of the billow, 
Aroused by the shriek of despair from thy pillow, 
Now, seated in glory, the mariner cherish. 
Who cries in his danger — "Help, Lord! or we 
perish !" 

And oh, when the whirlwind of passion is raging, 
When hell in our heart his wild warfare is waging. 
Arise in thy strength thy redeemed to cherish, 
Rebuke the destroyer — " Help, Lord! or we 
perish !" 



SEPTUAGESIMA SUNDAY. 

The God of glory walks his round. 
From day to day, from year to year. 
And warns us each with awful sound, 
" No longer stand ye idle here! 

" Ye whose young cheeks are rosy bright. 
Whose hands are strong, whose hearts are clear. 
Waste not of hope, the morning light ! 
Ah, fools ! why stand ye idle here 1 

" Oh, as the griefs ye would assuage 
That wait on life's declining year, 
Secure a blessing for your age. 
And work your Maker's business here ! 

" And ye, whose locks of scanty gray 
Foretell your latest travail near. 
How swiftly fades your worthless day! 
And stand ye yet so idle here 7 

" One hour remains, there is but one ! 
But many a shriek and many a tear 
Through endless years the guilt must moan 
Of moments lost and wasted here !" 



HYMNS. 



19 



Oh Thou, by all thy works adored, 
To whom the sinner's soul is dear, 
Recall us to thy vineyard, Lord ! 
And grant us grace to please thee here ! 



SEXAGESIMA SUNDAY. 

Oh, God ! by whom the seed is given ; 

By whom the harvest blest ; 

Whose word like manna showered from heaven, 

Is planted in our breast ; 

Preserve it from the passing feet, 
And plunderers of the air ; 
The sultry sun's intenser heat, 
And weeds of worldly care ; 

Though buried deep or thinly strewn, 
Do thou thy grace supply ; 
The hope in earthly furrows sown 
Shall ripen in the sky ! 



aUINaUAGESIMA. 

Lord of mercy and of might, 
Of mankind the hfe and light. 
Maker, teacher, infinite, 
Jesus, hear and save ! 

Who, when sin's primaeval doom 
Gave creation to the tomb, 
Didst not scorn a Virgin's womb, 
Jesus, hear and save ! 

Strong, Creator, Saviour mild, 
Humbled to a mortal child. 
Captive, beaten, bound, reviled, 
Jesus, hear and save ! 

Throned above celestial things, 
Borne aloft on angels' wings. 
Lord of lords, and King of kings, 
Jesus, hear and save ! 

Soon to come to earth again, 
Judge of angels and of men. 
Hear us now, and hear us then, 
Jesus, hear and save ! 



THIRD SUNDAY IN LENT. 

ViRGiN-born! we bow before thee! 
Blessed was the womb that bore thee ! 
Mary, mother meek and mild, 
Blessed was she in her child ! 

Blessed was the breast that fed thee ! 
Blessed was the hand that led thee ! 



Blessed was the parent's eye 

That watched thy slumbering infancy ! 

Blessed she by all creation, 

Who brought forth the world's salvation I 

And blessed they, for ever blest, 

Who love thee most and serve thee best ! 

Virgin-born ! we bow before thee ! 
Blessed was the womb that bore thee ! 
Mary, mother meek and mild. 
Blessed was she in her child ! 



FOURTH SUNDAY IN LENT. 

Oh, King of earth and air and sea ! 
The hungry ravens cry to thee ; 
To thee the scaly tribes that sweep 
The bosom of the boundless deep ; 

To thee the lions roaring call, 
The common Father, kind to' all ! 
Then grant thy servants, Lord ! we pray, 
Our daily bread from day to day! 

The fishes may for food complain ; 
The ravens spread their wings in vain ; 
The roaring lions lack and pine; 
But God ! thou carest still for thine ! 

Thy bounteous hand with food can bless 
The bleak and lonely wilderness ; 
And thou hast taught us, Lord ! to pray 
For daily bread from day to day I 

And oh, when through the wilds we roam 
That part us from our heavenly home ; 
When, lost in danger, want, and wo. 
Our faithless tears begin to flow ; 

Do thou thy gracious comfort give, 
By which alone the soul may live ; 
And grant thy servants, Lord 1 we pray, 
The bread of life from day to day I 



FIFTH SUNDAY IN LENT. 

Oh Thou, whom neither time nor space 
Can circle in, unseen, unknown, 

Nor faith in boldest flight can trace, 
Save through thy Spirit and thy Son ! 

And Thou that from thy bright abode, 
To us in mortal weakness shown. 

Didst graft the manhood into God, 
Eternal, co-eternal Son ! 

And Thou whose unction from on high 
By comfort, light, and love is known ! 

Who, with the parent Deity, 
Dread Spirit ! art for ever one ! 



20 



HEBER'S POEMS. 



Great First and Last ! thy blessing give ! 

And grant us faith, thy gift alone, 
To love and praise thee while we live, 

And do whate'er thou vvould'st have done ! 



SIXTH SUNDAY IN LENT. 
The Lord of might, from Sinai's brow, 

Gave forth his voice of thunder ; 
And Israel lay on earth below. 

Outstretched in fear and wonder. 
Beneath his feet was pitchy night. 
And, at his left hand and his right, 

The rocks were rent asunder ! 

The Lord of love, on Calvary, 
A meek and suffering stranger. 

Upraised to heaven his languid eye, 
In nature's hour of danger. 

For us he bore the weight of wo, 

For us he gave his blood to flow, 
And met his Father's anger. 

The Lord of love, the Lord of might. 

The king of all created, 
Shall back return to claim his right, 

On clouds of glory seated ; 
With trumpet-sound and angel-song, 
And hallelujahs loud and long 

O'er Death and Hell defeated ! 



GOOD FRIDAY. 

Oh more than merciful ! whose bounty gave 
Thy guiltless self to glut the greedy grave ! 
Whose heart was rent to pay thy people's price, 
The great High-priest at once and sacrifice I 
Help, Saviour, by thy cross and crimson stain, 
Nor let thy glorious blood be spilt in vain ! 

When sin with flow'ry garland hides her dart, 
When tyrant force would daunt tlie sinking heart, 
When fleshly lust assails, or worldly care, 
Or the soul flutters in the fowler's snare, — - 
Help, Saviour, by thy cross and crimson stain. 
Nor let thy glorious blood be spilt in vain ! 

And chiefest then, when nature yields the strife, 
And mortal darkness wraps the gate of life, 
When the poor spirit, from the tomb set free, 
Sinks at thy feet and lifts its hope to thee — 
Help, Saviour, by thy cross and crimson stain ! 
Nor let thy glorious blood be spilt in vain ! 



EASTER DAY. 

God is gone up with a merry noise 

Of saints that sing on high ; 
With his own right hand and hia holy arm 

He hath won the victory ! 



Now empty are the courts of death. 
And crushed thy sting, despair : 

And roses bloom in the desert tomb. 
For Jesus hath been there ! 

And he hath tamed the strength of hell. 
And dragged him through the sky. 

And captive behind his chariot wheel, 
He hath bound captivity ! 

God is gone up with a merry noise 

Of saints that sing on high ; 
With his own right hand and his holy arm 

He hath won the victory ! 



FIFTH SUNDAY AFTER EASTER. 

Life nor Death shall us dissever 
From his love who reigns for ever ! 
Will he fail us? Never! never 1 
When to him we cry ! 

Sin may seek to snare us. 
Fury passion tear us ! 
Doubt and fear, and grim despair, 
Their fangs against us try; 

But his might shall still defend us, 
And his blessed Son befriend us, 
And his Holy Spirit send us 
Comfort ere we die I 



ASCENSION DAY, AND SUNDAY 
AFTER. 

" Sit thou on my right hand, my Son !" saith the 

Lord. 
" Sit thou on my right hand, my Son ! 

Till in the fatal hour 

Of my wrath and my power. 
Thy foes shall be a footstool to thy throne ! 

" Prayer shall be made to thee, my Son !" saith 

the Lord. 
" Prayer shall be made to thee, my Son ! 
From earth and air and sea. 
And all that in them be, 
Which thou for thine heritage hast won !" 

" Daily be thou praised, my Son !" saith the Lord. 

" Daily be thou praised, my Son ! 
And all that live and move, 
Let them bless thy bleeding love, 

And the work which thy worthiness hath done !" 



WHITSUNDAY. 

Spirit of Truth ! on this thy day 

To thee for help we cry ; 
To guide us through the dreary way 

Of dark mortality ! 



HYMNS. 



21 



We ask not, Lord ! thy cloven flame, 

Or tongues of various tone ; 
But long thy praises to proclaim 

With fervour in our own. 

Wejnourn not that prophetic skill 

Is found on earth no more ; 
Enough for us to trace thy will 

In Scripture's sacred lore. 

We neither have nor seek the power 

111 demons to control ; 
But thou in dark temptation's hour, 

Shall chase them from the soul. 

No heavenly harpings sooth our ear. 

No mystic dreams we share ; 
Yet hope to feel thy comfort near, 

And bless thee i« our prayer. 

When tongues shall cease, and power decay. 

And knowledge empty prove. 
Do thou thy trembling servants stay 

With Faith, with Hope, with Love ! 



TRINITY SUNDAY. 

Holy, holy, holy. Lord God Almighty, 
Early in the morning our song shall rise to thee; 

Holy, holy, holy, merciful and mighty ! 
God in three persons, blessed Trinity ! 

Holy, holy, holy! all the saints adore thee, 

Casting down their golden crowns around the 
glassy sea ; 

Cherubim and seraphim falling down before thee, 
Which wert and art and evermore shall be ! 

Holy, holy, holy ! though the darkness hide thee, 
Though the eye of sinful man thy glory may 
not see. 

Only thou art holy, there is none beside thee, 
Perfect in power, in love, and purity ! 

Holy, holy, holy, Lord God Almighty ! 

AH thy works shall praise thy name in eartli 
and sky and sea. 
Holy, holy, holy, merciful and mighty! 

God in three persons, blessed Trinity ! 



FIRST SUNDAY AFTER TRINITY. 

Room for the proud ! Ye sons of clay, 
From far his sweeping pomp survey. 
Nor, rashly curious, clog the way 
His chariot wheels before ! 

Lo! with what scorn his lofty eye 
Glances o'er age and poverty. 
And bids intruding conscience fly 
Far from his palace door ! 



Room for the proud ! but slow the feet 
That bear his coffin down the street: 
And dismal seems his winding sheet 
Who purple lately wore! 

Ah! where must now his spirit fly 
In naked, trembling agony 7 
Or how shall he for mercy cry 
Who showed it not before ! 

Room for the proud ! in ghastly state, 
The lords of hell his coming wait. 
And flinging wide the dreadful gate, 
That shuts to ope no more. 

" Lo here with us the seat," they cry, 
" For him who mocked at poverty, 
And bade intruding conscience fly 
Far from his palace door !" 



FOR THE SAME. 

The feeble pulse, the gasping breath, 
The clenched teeth, the glazed eye, 

Are these thy sting, thou dreadful death ! 
O grave, are these thy victory 1 

The mourners by our parting bed, 
The wife, the children, weeping nigh. 

The dismal pageant of the dead, — 
These, these are not thy victory I 

But, from the much-loved world to part. 
Our lust untamed, our spirit high, 

All nature struggling at the heart, 
Which, dying, feels it dare not die ! 

To dream through life a gaudy dream 
Of pride and pomp and luxury. 

Till wakened by the nearer gleam 
Of burning, boundless agony; 

To meet o'er soon our angry king, 
Whose love we past unheeded by; 

Lo this, O Death, thy deadliest sting ! 
O Grave, and this thy victory ! 

O Searcher of the secret heart. 

Who deigned for sinful man to die ! 

Restore us ere the spirit part. 
Nor give to hell the victory ! 



SECOND SUNDAY AFTER TRINITY. 

Forth from the dark and stormy sky. 
Lord, to thine altar's shade we fly; 
Forth from the world, its hope and fear 
Saviour, we seek thy shelter here: 
Weary and weak, thy grace we pray; 
Turn not, O Lord ! thy guests away ! 



22 



HEBER'S POEMS. 



Long have we roamed in want and pain, 
Long have we sought thy rest in vain ; 
Wildered in doubt, in darkness lost, 
Long have our souls been tempest-tost j 
Low at thy feet our sins we lay ; 
Turn not, O Lord ! thy guests away ! 



THIRD SUNDAY AFTER TRINITY. 

There was joy in heaven ! 
There was joy in heaven ! 
When this goodly world to frame 
The Lord of might and mercy came : 
Shouts of joy were heard on high, 
And the stars sang from the sky — 
" Glory to God in heaven !" 

There was joy in heaven ! 
There was joy in heaven ! 
When the billows, heaving dark, 
Sank around the stranded ark, 
And the rainbow's watery span 
Spake of mercy, hope to man, 
And peace with God in Heaven ! 

There was joy in heaven ! 
There was joy in heaven ! 
When of love the midnight beam 
Dawned on the towers of Bethlehem ; 
And along the echoing hill 
Angels sang — " On earth good will, 
And glory in the Heaven !" 

There is joy in heaven ! 
There is joy in heaven! 
When the sheep that went astray 
Turns again to virtue's way; 
When the soul, by grace subdued, 
Sobs it prayer of gratitude, 
Then is there joy in Heaven ! 



FOURTH SUNDAY AFTER TRINITY. 

I PRAISED the earth, in beauty seen 
With garlands gay of various green ; 
I praised the sea, whose ample field 
Shone glorious as a silver shield ; 
And earth and ocean seemed to say, 
" Our beauties are but for a day !" 

I praised the sun, whose chaiiot rolled 
On wheels of amber and of gold ; 
I praised the moon, whose softer eye 
Gleamed sweetly through the summer sky! 
And moon and sun in answer said, 
" Our days of light are numbered!" 

O God! O good beyond compare* 
If thus thy meaner works axe fair! 



If thus thy bounties gild the span 

Of ruined earth and sinful man, 

How glorious must the mansion be 

Where thy redeemed shall dwell with Thee! 



FIFTH SUNDAY AFTER TRINITY. 

Creator of the rolling flood ! 

On whom thy people hope alone ; 
Who cam'st, by water and by blood, 

For man's offences to atone ; 

Who from the labours of the deep 
Didst, set thy servant Peter free, 

To feed on earth thy chosen sheep, 
And build an endless church to thee. 

Grant us, devoid of worldly care, 
And leaning on thy bounteous hand 

To seek thy help in humble prayer. 
And on thy sacred rock to stand: 

And when, our livelong toil to crown, 
Thy call shall set the spirit free, 

To cast with joy our burthen down, 
And rise, O Lord ! and follow thee ! 



SEVENTH SUNDAY AFTER TRINITY. 

When spring unlocks the flowers to paint the 
laughing soil ; 

When summer's balmy showers refresh the mow- 
er's toil ; 

When winter binds in frosty chains the fallow and 
the flood, 

In God the earth rejoiceth still, and owns his 
Maker good. 

The birds that wake the morning, and those that 

love the shade ; 
The winds that sweep the mountain or lull the 

drowsy glade ; 
The sun that from his amber bower rejoiceth on 

his way. 
The moon and stars, their Master's name in silent 

pomp display. 

Shall man, the lord of nature, expectant of the sky, 
Shall man, alone unthankful, his little praise deny 1 
No, let the year forsake his course, the seasons 

cease to be. 
Thee, Master, must we always love, and. Saviour, 

honour thee. 

The flowers of spring may wither, the hope of 

summer fade. 
The autumn droop in winter, the birds forsalte 

the shade ; 



HYMNS. 



23 



The winds be lulled— the sun and moon forget 

their old decree, 
But we in nature's latest hour, O Lord! will cling 

to thee. 



TENTH SUNDAY AFTER TRINITY. 

Jerusalem, Jerusalem ! enthroned once on high, 
Thou favoured home of God on earth, thou heaven 

below the sky ! 
Now brought to bondage with thy sons, a curse 

and grief to see, 
Jerusalem, Jerusalem ! our tears shall flow for thee. 

Oh! hadst thou known thy day of grace, and 
flocked beneath the wing 

Of him who called thee lovingly, thine own anoint- 
ed King, 

Then had the tribes of all the world gone up thy 
pomp to see, 

And glory dwelt within thy gates, and all thy sons 
been free ! 

"And who art thou that mournest me?" replied 

the ruin gray, 
" And fear'st not rather that thyself may prove a 

castaway? 
I am a dried and abject branch, my place is given 

to thee ; 
But wo to every barren graft of thy wild olive-tree ! 

" Our day of grace is sunk in night, our time of 

mercy spent. 
For heavy was my children's crime, and strange 

their punishment ; 
Yet gaze not idly on our fall, but, sinner, warned 

be. 
Who spared not his chosen seed may send his 

wrath on thee ! 

" Our day of grace is sunk in night, thy noon is 
in its prime ; 

Oh ! turn and seek thy Saviour's face in this ac- 
cepted time! 

So, Gentile, may Jerusalem a lesson prove to thee, 

And in the new Jerusalem thy home for ever be !" 



THIRTEENTH SUNDAY AFTER TRI- 
NITY. 

" Who yonder on the desert heath, 

Complains in feeble tone 1" 
— " A pilgrim in the vale of death, 

Faint, bleeding, and alone !" 

•' How cam'st thou to this dismal strand 
Of danger, grief, and shame?" 
-" From blessed Sion's holy land. 
By folly led, I c»me !" 



" What ruflian hand hath stript thee barel 

Whose fury laid thee low ?" 
— " Sin for my footsteps twined her snare, 

And death has dealt the blow !" 

" Can art no medicine for thy wound, 

Nor nature strength supply?" 
— " They saw me bleeding on the ground, 

And passed in silence by !" 

"But, sufferer! is no comfort near 

Thy terrors to remove?" 
— " There is to whom my soul was dear, 

But I have scorned his love." 

" What if iiis hand were nigh to save 
From endless death thy days?" 

— " The soul he ransomed from the grave 
Should live but to his praise!" 

" Rise then, O rise ! his health embrace, 
With heavenly strength renewed; 

And such as is thy Saviour's grace, 
Such be thy gratitude!'' 



FIFTEENTH SUNDAY AFTER TRI 
NITY. 

Lo ! the lilies of the field, 

How their leaves instruction yield ! 

Hark to nature's lesson given 

By the blessed birds of Heaven ! 

Every bush and tufted tree 

Warbles sweet philosophy ; 

" Mortal, fly from doubt and sorrow: 

God provideth for the morrow I 

" Say, with richer crhnson glows 
The kingly mantle than the rose? 
Say, have kings more wholesome fare 
That we, poor citizens of air ? 
Barns nor hoarded grain have we. 
Yet we carol merrily. 
Mortal, fly from doubt and sorrow! 
God provideth for the morrow ! 

" One there lives whose guardian eye 
Guides our humble destiny ; 
One there lives who, Lord of all. 
Keeps our feathers lest they fall: 
Pass we blithely, then, the time. 
Fearless of the snare and lime, 
Free from doubt and faithless sorrow; 
God provideth for the morrow !" 



SIXTEENTH SUNDAY AFTER TRI- 
NITY. 

Wake not, oh mother! sounds of lamentation! 

Weep not, oh widow ! weep not hopelessly ! 
Strong is his arm, the bringer of salvation. 

Strong is the word of God to succour thee! 



24 



HEBER'S POEMS. 



Bear forth the cold corpse, slowly, slowly bear 
him: 

Hide his pale features with the sable pall : 
Chide not the sad one wildly weeping near him : 

Widowed and childless, she has lost her all ! 

Why pause the mourners 7 Who forbids our 
weeping"? 
Who the dark pomp of sorrow has delayed 1 
" Set down the bier — he is not dead but sleeping ! 
" Young man, arise !" — He spake, and was 
obeyed ! 

Change, then, oh sad one! grief to exultation, 
Worship and fall before Messiah's knee. 

Strong was his arm, the bringer of salvation, 
Strons was the word of God to succour thee ! 



NINETEENTH SUNDAY AFTER TRI- 
NITY. 

Oh blest were the accents of early creation. 
When the word of Jehovah came down from 
above ; 

In the clods of the earth to infuse animation, 
And wake their cold atoms to life and to love ! 

And mighty the tones which the firmament rended, 
When on wheels of the thunder, and wings of 
the wind. 
By lightning, and hail, and thick darkness at- 
tended. 
He uttered on Sinai his laws to mankind. 

And sweet was the voice of the First-born of 
heaven, 
(Though poor his apparel, though earthly his 
form,) 
Who said to the mourner, "Thy sins are for- 
given !" 
"Be whole!" to the sick, — and "Be still!" to 
the storm. 

Oh, Judge of the world ! when, arrayed in thy 
glory. 
Thy summons again shall be heard from on 
high. 
While nature stands trembling and naked before 
thee. 
And waits on thy sentence to live or to die; 

When the heaven shall fly fast from the sound of 
thy thunder. 
And the sun, in thy lightnings, grow languid 
and pale, 
And the sea yield her dead, and the tomb cleave 
asunder, 
In the hour of thy terrors, let mercy prevail ! 



TWENTY-FIRST SUNDAY AFTER 
TRINITY. 

The sound of war ! In earth and air 

The volleying thunders roll : 
Their fiery darts the fiends prepare, 
And dig the pit, and spread the snare, 
Against the Christian's soul 
The tyrant's sword, the rack, the flame, 

The scorner's serpent tone, 
Of bitter doubt, the barbed aim. 
All, all conspire his heart to tame : 
Force, fraud, and hellish fires assail 
The rivets of his heavenly mail, 

Amidst his foes alone. 

Gods of the world ! ye warrior host 

Of darkness and of air. 
In vain is all your impious boast, 
In vain each missile lightning tost, 

In vain the tempter's snare ! 
Though fast and far your arrows fly, 

Though mortal nerve and bone 
Shrink in convulsive agony. 
The Christian can your rage defy ; 
Towers o'er his head salvation's crest, 
Faith, like a buckler, guards his breast. 

Undaunted, though alone. 

'T is past ! 't is o'er I in foul defeat 

The demon host are fled! 
Before the Saviour's mercy-seat, 
(His live-long work of faith complete,) 

Their conqueror bends his head. 
" The spoils thyself hast gained. Lord! 

I lay before thy throne : 
Thou wert my rock, my shield, my sword; 
My trust was in thy name and word : 
'T was in thy strength my heart was strong; 
Thy spirit went with mine along; 

How was I then alone 1" 



TWENTY-SECOND SUNDAY AFTER 
TRINITY. 

Oh God ! my sins are manifold, against my life 
they cry. 

And all my guilty deeds foregone, up to thy tem- 
ple fly; 

Wilt thou release my trembling soul, that to de- 
spair is driven 1 

"Forgive!" a blessed voice replied, "and thou 
shalt be forgiven!" 

My foemen. Lord ! are fierce and fell, they spurn 

me in their pride, 
They render evil for my good, my patience they 

deride ; 



HYMNS. 



25 



Arise, oh King! and be the proud to righteous 

ruin driven ! 
"Forgive'" an awful answer came, "as thou 

would'st be forgiven!" 

Seven times, Oh Lord! I pardoned them, seven 
times they sinned again ; 

They practice still to work me wo, they triumph 
in my pain ; 

But let them dread my vengeance now, to just re- 
sentment driven ! 

" Forgive!" the voice of thunder spake, " or never 
be forgiven!" 



TWENTY-THIRD SUNDAY AFTER 
TRINITY. 

From foes that would the land devour; 
From guilty pride, and lust of power; 
From wild sedition's lawless hour ; 

From yoke of slavery ; 
From blinded zeal by faction led ; 
From giddy change by fancy bred ; 
From poisonous error's serpent head, 

Good Lord, preserve us free ! 

Defend, oh God ! with guardian hand. 

The laws and ruler of our land, 

And grant our church thy grace to stand 

In faith and unity! 
The spirit's help of thee we crave, 
That thou whose blood was shed to save, 
May'.st, at thy second coming, have 

A flock to welcome thee ! 



TWENTY-FOURTH SUNDAY AFTER 
TRINITY. 

To conquer and to save, the Son of God 
Came to his own in great humility. 
Who wont to ride on cherub wings abroad. 
And round him wrap the mantle of the sky. 
The mountains bent their necks to form his road; 
The clouds dropt down tlieir fatness from on high 
Beneath his feet the wild waves softly flowed, 
And the winds kissed his garment tremblingly! 

The grave unbolted half his grisly door, 

(For darkness and the deep had heard his fame, 

Nor longer might their ancient rule endure;) 

The mightiest of mankind stood hushed and tame: 

And, trooping on strong wing, his angels came 

To work his will, and kingdom to secure : 

No strength he needed save his Father's name ; 

Babes were his heralds, and his friends the poor ! 



FOR ST. JAMES'S DAY. 

Though sorrows rise and dangers roll 
In waves of darkness o'er my soul. 
Though friends are false and love decays, 
And few and evil are ray days, 
Though conscience, fiercest of my foes. 
Swells with remembered guilt my woes, 
Yet ev'n in nature's utmost ill, 
1 love thee. Lord ! I love thee still ! 

Though Sinai's curse, in thunder dread, 
Peals o'er mine unprotected head. 
And memory points, with busy pain, 
To grace and mercy given in vain, 
Till nature, shrieking in tlie strife, 
Would fly to hell, to 'scape from life. 
Though every thought lias power to kill, 
I love thee, Lord ! I love thee still ! 

Oh, by the pangs thyself hast borne. 

The ruffian's blow, the tyrant's scorn ; 

By Sinai's curse, whose dreadful doom 

Was buried in thy guiltless tomb: 

By these my pangs, whose healing smart 

Thy grace hath planted in my heart; 

I know, I feel thy bounteous will ! 

Thou lovest me, Lord ! thou lovest me still ! 



MICHAELMAS DAY. 

Oh, captain of God's host, whose dreadful might 
Led forth to war the armed Seraphim, 

And from the starry height. 

Subdued in burning fight. 
Cast down that ancient dragon, dark and grim ! 

Thine angels, Christ ! we laud in solemn lays, 
Our elder brethren of the crystal sky, 

Who, 'mill thy glory's blaze. 

The ceaseless anthem raise, 
And gird thy throne in faithful ministry ! 

We celebrate their love, whose viewless wing 
Hath left for us so oft their mansion high. 

The mercies of their king. 

To mortal saints to bring. 
Or guard the couch of slumbering infancy. 

But thee, the first and last, we glorify. 
Who, when thy world was sunk in death and sin. 

Not with thine hierarchy, 

The armies of the sky, 
But didst with thine own arm the battle win. 

Alone didst pass the dark and dismal shore 
Alone didst tread the wine-press, and alone, 

All glorious in thy gore. 

Didst light and life restore. 
To us who lay in darkness and undone! 



26 



HEBER'S POEMS. 



Therefore, with angels and archangels, we 
To thy dear love our thankful chorus raise, 

And tune our songs to thee 

Who art, and ought to be, 
And, endless as thy mercies, sound thy praise ! 



IN TIMES OF DISTRESS AND 
DANGER. 

Oh God, that madest earth and sky, the darkness 
and the day. 

Give ear to this thy family, and help us when we 
pray! 

For wide the waves of bitterness around our ves- 
sel roar, 

And heavy grows the pilot's heart to view the 
rocky shore ! 

The cross our master bore for us, for him we fain 
would bear, 

But mortal strength to weakness turns, and cour- 
age to despair ! 

Then mercy on our failings, Lord! our sinking 
faith renew I 

And when thy sorrows visit us, oh send thy pa- 
tience too ! 



INTENDED TO BE SUNG 

ON OCCASION OF HIS PREACHING A SERMON FOR 

THE CHURCH MISSIONARY SOCIETY, IN 

APRIL, 1820. 

From Greenland's icy mountains. 

From India's coral strand, 
Where Afric's sunny fountains 

Roll down their golden sand ; 
From many an ancient river. 

From many a palmy plain, 
They call us to deliver 

Their land from error's chain ! 

What though the spicy breezes 

Blow soft o'er Ceylon's isle, 
Though every prospect pleases. 

And only man is vile : 
In vain with lavish kindness 

The gifts of God are strown. 
The heathen, in his blindness. 

Bows down to wood and stone ! 

Can we, whose souls are lighted 

With wisdom from on high. 
Can we to men benighted 

The lamp of life deny"? 
Salvation ! oh salvation ! 

The joyful sound proclaim. 
Till each remotest nation 

Has learned Messiah's name! 



Waft, waft, ye winds, his story. 

And you, ye waters, roll, 
Till, like a sea of glory. 

It spreads from pole to pole ; 
Till o'er our ransomed nature, 

The lamb for sinners slain. 
Redeemer, King, Creator, 

In bliss returns to reign ! 



AN INTROIT 

TO BE SUNG BETWEEN THE LITANY AND COMMU- 
NION SERVICE. 

Oh most merciful ! 

Oh most bountiful ! 

God the Father Almighty! 

By the Redeemer's 

Sweet intercession 

Hear us, help us when we cry! 



BEFORE THE SACRAMENT. 

Bread of the world, in mercy broken ! 

Wine of the soul in mercy shed ! 
By whom the words of life were spoken, 

And in whose death our sins are dead ! 

Look on the heart by sorrow broken, 
Look on the tears by sinners shed, 

And be thy feast to us the token 
That by thy grace our souls are fed ! 



AT A FUNERAL. 

Beneath our feet and o'er our head 

Is equal warning given ; 
Beneath us lie the countless dead, 

Above us is the heaven! 

Their names are graven on the stone, 
Their bones are in the clay; 

And ere another day is done, 
Ourselves may be as they. 

Death rides on every passing breeze, 

He lurks in every flower ; 
Each season has its own disease, 

Its peril every hour ! 

Our eyes have seen the rosy light 
Of youth's soft cheek decay, 

And Fate descend in sudden night 
On manhood's middle day. 

Our eyes have seen the steps of age 
Halt feebly towards the tomb. 

And yet shall earth our hearts engage. 
And dreams of days to cornel 



HYMNS. 



27 



Turn, mortal, turn ! thy danger know ; 

Where'er thy foot can tread 
The earth rings hollow from below, 

And warns thee of her dead ! 

Turn, Christian, turn! thy soul apply 

To truths divinely given ; 
The bones that underneath thee lie 

Shall live for hell or heaven ! 



STANZAS 

ON THE DEATH OF A FRIEND. 

Thou art gone to the grave ! but we will not de- 
plore thee, 

Though sorrows and darkness encompass the 
tomb: 

Thy Saviour has passed through its portal before 
thee, 

And the lamp of his love is thy guide through the 
gloom ! 

Thou art gone to the grave ! we no longer behold 

thee, 
Nor tread the rough paths of the world by thy side ; 
But the wide arms of Mercy are spread to enfold 

thee. 
And sinners may die, for the sinless has died ! 

Thou art gone to the grave ! and, its mansion for- 
saking. 

Perchance thy weak spirit in fear lingered long , 

But the mild rays of paradise beamed on thy 
waking. 

And the sound which thou heardst was the sera- 
phim's song! 

Thou art gone to the grave ! but we will not de- 
plore thee. 

Whose God was thy ransom, thy guardian and 
guide ; 

He gave thee, he took thee, and he will restore 
thee. 

And death has no sting, for the Saviour has died!* 



* The following stanzas were written as an addition to the 
above hymn, by an English clergyman, on hearing of the de- 
cease of the author. 



ON RECOVERY FROM SICKNESS. 

Oh, Saviour of the faithful dead, 
With whom thy servants dwell, 

Though cold and green the turf is spread 
Above their narrow cell, — 

No more we cling to mortal clay, 

We doubt and fear no more. 
Nor shrink to tread the darksome way 

Which thou hast trod before ! 

'Twas hard from those I loved to go, 

Who knelt around my bed. 
Whose tears bedewed my burning brow, 

Whose arms upheld my head! 

As fading from my dizzy view, 

I sought their forms in vain, 
The bitterness of death 1 knew. 

And groaned to live again. 

'Twas dreadful when th' accuser's power 

Assailed my sinking heart, 
Recounting every wasted hour, 

And each unworthy part : 

But, Jesus ! in that mortal fray, 

Thy blessed comfort stole. 
Like sunshine in a stormy day, 

Across my darkened soul I 

When soon or late this feeble breath 

No more to thee shall pray, 
Support me through the vale of death, 

And in the darksome way ! 

When clothed in fleshly weeds again 

I wait thy dread decree, 
Judge of the world ! bethink thee then 

That thou hast died for me. 



Thou art gone to the grave ! and whole nations bemoan thee, 
Who caught from thy lips the glad tidings of peace: 

Yet grateful, they still in their hearts shall enthrone thee, 
And ne'er shall thy name from their memories cease. 

Thou art gone to the grave ! but thy work shall not perish, 
That work which the spirit of wisdom hath blest ; 

His strength shall sustain it, his comforts shall cherish, 
And make it to prosper, though thou art at rest. 



28 



HEBER'S POEMS. 



THE FIRST OLYMPIC ODE. 

TO HIERO OF SYRACUSE, VICTOR IN THE HORSE 
RACE. 

Can earth, or fire, or liquid air, 
With water's sacred stream compare 1 
Can aught that wealthy tyrants hold 
Surpass the lordly blaze of gold 1 — 
Or lives there one, whose restless eye 
Would seek along the empty sky, 
Beneath the sun's meridian ray, 
A warmer star, a purer day 1 — 
O thou, my soul, whose choral song, 
Would tell of contests sharp and strong. 
Extol not other lists above 
The circus of Olympian Jove ; 
Whence borne on many a tuneful tongue. 
So Saturn's seed the anthem sung. 
With harp, and flute, and trumpet's call, 
Hath sped to Hiero's festival. — 

Over sheep-clad Sicily 
Who the righteous sceptre beareth, 

Every flower of virtue's tree 

Wove in various wreath he weareth. — 

But the bud of poesy 

Is the fairest flower of all ; 

Which the bards, in social glee. 

Strew round Hiero's wealthy hall. — 
The harp on yonder pin suspended. 

Seize it, boy, for Pisa's sake ; 

And that good steed's, whose thought will wake 
A joy with anxious fondness blended : — 
No sounding lash his sleek side rended ; — 

By Alpheus' brink, with feet of flame. 
Self-driven, to the goal he tended : 

And earned the olive wreath of fame 

For that dear lord, whose righteous name 
The sons of Syracusa tell : — 
Who loves the generous courser well : 
Beloved himself by all who dwell 
In Pelop's L3'dian colony. — 
— Of earth-embracing Neptune, he 
The darling, when, in days of yore, 
All lovely from the caldron red 
By Clotho's spell delivered. 
The youth an ivory shoulder bore. — 

— Well! — these are tales of mystery! — 
And many a darkly-woven lie 
With men will easy credence gain ; 
While truth, calm truth, may speak in vain ; 
For eloquence, whose honeyed sway 
Our frailer mortal wits obey. 



Can honour give to actions ill. 
And faith to deeds incredible ; — 
And bitter blame, and praises high, 
Fall truest from posterity. — 

But, if we dare the deeds rehearse 

Of those that aye endure, 
'T were meet that in such dangerous verse 

Our every word were pure. — 
Then, son of Tantalus, receive 

A plain unvarnished lay I — 
My song shall elder fables leave, 
And of thy parent say. 
That, when in heaven a favoured guest, 
He called the gods in turns to feast 
On Sipylus, his mountain home: — 
The sovereign of the ocean foam, 
— Can mortal from such favour prove 1 
Rapt thee on golden car above 
To highest house of mighty Jove ; 

To which, in after day. 
Came golden-haired Ganymede, 
As bard in ancient story read. 

The dark-winged eagle's prey. — 

* 

And when no earthly tongue could tell 
The fate of thee, invisible ; — 
Nor friends, who sought thee wide in vain, 
To soothe thy weeping mother's pain. 
Could bring the wanderer home again; 

Some envious neighbour's spleen, 
In distant hints, and darkly, said. 
That in the caldron hissing red. 
And on the god's great table spread. 

Thy mangled limbs were seen. — 
But who shall tax, I dare not, I, 
The blessed gods with gluttony'? — 
Full oft the sland'rous tongue has felt 
By their high wrath the thunder dealt; — 
And sure, if ever mortal head 
Heaven's holy watchers honoured. 

That head was Lydia's lord. — 
Yet, could not mortal heart digest 
The wonders of that heavenly feast ; 
Elate with pride, a thought unblest 

Above his nature soared. — 
And now, condemned to endless dread, — 
(Such is the righteous doom of fate,) 
He eyes, above his guilty head. 
The shadowy rocks' impending weight: — 
The fourth, with that tormented three(l) 
In horrible society ! — 



TRANSLATIONS OF PINDAR. 



29 



For that, in frantic theft, 

The nectar cup he reft, 
And to his mortal peers in feasting poured 

For whom a sin it were 

With mortal Ufe to share 
The mystic dainties of th' immortal board: 

And who by policy 

Can hope to 'scape the eye 
Of him who sits above by men and gods adored? 

For such offence, a doom severe, 
Sent down the sun to sojourn here 
Among the fleeting race of man; — 
Who, when the curly down began 
To clothe his cheek in darker shade. 
To car-borne Pisa's royal maid(2) 
A lover's tender service paid. — 
But, in the darkness first he stood 
Alone, by ocean's hoary flood. 
And raised to him the suppliant cry, 
The hoarse earth-shaking deity. — 

Nor called in vain, through cloud and storm 
Half-seen, a huge and shadowy form, 

The god of waters came. — 
He came, whom thus the youth addressed — 
"Oh thou, if that immortal breast 

Have felt a lover's flame, 
A lover's prayer in pity hear, 
Repel the tyrant's brazen spear 

That guards my lovely dame! — 
And grant a car whose rolling speed 
May help a lover at his need ; 
Condemned by Pisa's hand to bleed 
Unless I win the envied meed 

In Elis' field of fame! — 

For youthful knights thirteen 

By him have slaughtered been, 
His daughter vexing with perverse delay. — 

Such to a coward's eye 

Were evil augury; — 
Nor durst a coward's heart the strife essay ! 

Yet, since alike to all 

The doom of death must fall. 
Ah! wherefore, sitting in unseemly shade. 

Wear out a nameless life. 

Remote from noble strife, 
And all the sweet applause to valour paid? — 
Yes! — I will dare the course! but, thou. 
Immortal friend, my prayer allow!" — 

Thus, not in vain, his grief he told — 

The ruler of the wat'ry space 
Bestowed a wondrous car of gold, 

And tireless steeds of winged pace. — 
So, victor in the deathful race. 

He tamed the strength of Pisa's king, 
And, from his bride of beauteous face, 



Beheld a stock of warriors spring, 

Six valiant sons, as legends sing. — 
And now, with fame and virtue crowned, 

Where Alpheus' stream in wat'ry ring, 
Encircles half his turfy mound, 
Ho sleeps beneath the piled ground ;(3) 

Near that blest spot where strangers move 
In many a long procession round 

The altar of protecting Jove. — 
Yet chief, in yonder lists of fame. 
Survives the nolile Pelop's name; 
Where strength of hands and nimble feet 
In stern and dubious contest meet; 
And high renown and honeyed praise. 
And following length of honoured days, 
To victor's weary toil repays. — 

But what are past or future joys "? 

The present is our own ! 
And he is wise who best employs 

The passing hour alone. — 
To crown with knightly wreath the king, 

(A grateful task,) be mine; 
And on the smooth JSolian string 

To praise his ancient line ! 
For ne'er shall wandering minstrel find 
A chief so just, — a friend so kind ; 
With every grace of fortune blest ; 
The mightiest, wisest, bravest, best ! — 

God, who beholdeth thee and all thy deeds,(4) 
Have thee in charge, king Hiero! — so again 
The bard may sing thy horny-hoofed steeds 
In frequent triumph o'er the Olympian plain ; 
Nor shall the Bard awake a lowly strain. 
His wild notes flinging o'er the Cronian steep 
Whose ready muse, and not invoked in vain. 
For such high mark her strongest shaft shall keep. 

Each hath his proper eminence ! 

To kings indulgent, Providence 

(No farther search the will of Heaven) 

The glories of the earth hatli given. — 

Still may'st thou reign ! enough for me 

To dwell with heroes like to thee. 

Myself the chief of Grecian minstrelsy. — 



TO THERON OF AGRAGAS, VICTOR 
IN THE CHARIOT RACE. 

O SONG ! whose voice the harp obeys. 
Accordant aye with answering string; 
What god, what hero wilt thou praise, 
What man of godlike prowess sing 1 — 
Lo, Jove himself is Pisa's king ; 
And Jove's strong son the first to raise 
The barriers of th' Olympic ring. — 
And now, victorious on the wing 



30 



HEBER'S POEMS. 



Of sounding wheels, our bards proclaim 
The stranger Theron's honoured name, 
The flower of no ignoble race,(5) 
And prop of ancient Agragas ! — 

His patient sires, for many a year, 
Where that blue river rolls its flood. 
Mid fruitless war and civil blood 

Essayed their sacred home to rear, — 
Till time assigned, in fatal hour, 
Their native virtues, wealth and power ; 
And made them from their low degree, 
The eye of warlike Sicily. 

And, may that power of ancient birth, 
From Saturn sprung, and parent Earth, 

Of tall Olympus' lord. 
Who sees with still benignant eye 
The games' long splendour sweeping by 

His Alpheus' holy ford : — 
Appeased with anthems chanted high, 
To Theron's late posterity 

A happier doom accord ! — 
Or good or ill, the past is gone. 
Nor time himself, the parent one, 
Can make the former deeds undone 

But who would these recall, — 
When happier days would fain efface 
The memory of each past disgrace. 
And, from the gods, on Theron's race 

Unbounded blessings fall 1 — 

Example meet for such a song, 
The sister queens of Laius' blood ; 

Who sorrow's edge endured long, 
Made keener by remembered good ! — 
Yet now, she breathes the air of Heaven 
(On earth by smouldering thunder riven.) 
Long-haired Semele : — 
To Pallas dear is she ; — 
Dear to the sire of gods, and dear 
To him, her son, in dreadful glee 
Who shakes the ivy-wreathed spear. — 

And thus, they tell that deep below 
The sounding ocean's ebb and flow. 
Amid the daughters of the sea, 
A sister nymph must Inobe, 
And dwell in bliss eternally : — 

But, ignorant and blind. 
We little know the coming hour ; 
Or if the latter day shall lower ; 
Or if to nature's kindly power 

Our life in peace resigned. 
Shall sink like fall of summer eve. 
And on the face of darkness leave 

A ruddy smile behind. — 
For grief and joy with fitful gale 
Our crazy bark by turns assail, 

And, whence our blessings flow, 



That same tremendous Providence 
Will oft a varying doom dispense, 
And lay the mighty low. — 

To Theban Laius that befell. 

Whose son, with murder dyed. 
Fulfilled the former oracle, 

Unconscious parricide ! — 
Unconscious ! — yet avenging hell 
Pursued th' oflender's stealthy pace. 
And heavy, sure, and hard it fell, 
The curse of blood, on all his race ! — 

Spared from their kindred strife, 

The young Thersander's life, 
Stern Polynices' heir, was left alone : 

In every martial game, 

And in the field of fame. 
For early force and matchless prowess known : — 

Was left, the pride and prop to be 

Of good Adrastus' pedigree. 

And hence, through loins of ancient kings. 

The warrior blood of Theron springs ; 

Exalted name! to whom belong 

The minstrel's harp, the poet's song, 
In fair Olympia crowned ; 
And where, mid Pythia's olives blue. 
An equal lot his brother drew : 
And where his twice-twain coursers flew 

The isthmus twelve times round. — 
Such honour, earned by toil and care, 
May best his ancient wrongs repair, 

And wealth, unstained by pride. 
May laugh at fortune's fickle power, 
And blameless in the tempting hour 

Of syren ease abide : — 
Led by that star of heavenly ray, 
Which best may keep our darkhng way 
O'er life's unsteady tide ! — 

For, whoso holds in righteousness the throne. 

He in his heart hath known 
How the foul spirits of the guilty dead. 

In chambers dark and dread. 
Of nether earth abide, and penal flame 

Where he, whom none may name, (6) 
Lays bare the soul by stern necessity ; 

Seated in judgment high ; 
The minister of God whose arm is there, 
In heaven alike and hell, almighty every where ! 

But, ever bright, by day, by night. 
Exulting in excess of light ; 
From labour free and long distress. 
The good enjoy their happiness. — 
No more the stubborn soil they cleave, 
Nor stem for scanty food the wave ; 

But with the venerable gods they dwell : — 
No tear bedims their thankful eye. 
Nor mars their long tranquillity; 

While those accursed howl in pangs unspeakable 



TRANSLATIONS OF PINDAR. 



31 



But, but who the thrice-renewed probation 
Of either world may well endure ; 
And keep with righteous destination 
The soul from all transgression pure ; 
To such and such alone is given, 
To walk the rainbow paths of heaven, 
To that tall city of almighty time, 
Where Ocean's balmy breezes play, 
And, flashing to the western day. 
The gorgeous blossoms of such blessed clime, 
Now in the happy isles are seen 
Sparkling through the groves of green ; 
And now, all glorious to behold. 
Tinge the wave with floating gold. — 

Hence are their garlands woven — hence their 

hands 
Filled with triumphal boughs; — the righteous 

doom 
Of Rhadamanthus, whom, o'er these his lands, 
A blameless judge in every time to come, 
Chronos, old Chronos, sire of gods hath placed ; 

Who with his consort dear. 

Dread Rhea, reigneth here, 
On cloudy throne with deathless honour graced. 

And still, they say, in high communion, 
Peleus and Cadmus here abide ; 
And, with the blest in blessed union, 
(Nor Jove has Thetis' prayer denied. )(7) 
The daughter of the ancient sea 
Hath brought her warrior boy to be ; 
Him whose stern avenging blow 
Laid the prop of Ilium low, 
Hector, trained to slaughter, fell, 
By all but him invincible ; — 
And sea-born Cycnus tamed ; and slew 
Aurora's knight of Ethiop hue. — 

Beneath my rattling belt I wear 
A sheaf of arrows keen and clear, 
Of vocal shafts, that wildly fly, 
Nor ken the base their import high. 
Yet to the wise they breathe no vulgar melody. 
Yes, he is wise whom nature's dower 

Hath raised above the crowd. — 
But, trained in study's formal hour. 
There are who hate the minstrel's power,(8) 
As daws who mark the eagle tower, 

And croak in envy loud ! — 
So let them rail ! but thou, my heart ! 
Rest on the bow thy levelled dart ; 

Nor seek a worthier aim 
For arrow sent on friendship's wing. 
Than him the Agragantine king 

Who best thy song may claim. — 
For, by eternal truth I swear, 
His parent town shall scantly bear 
A soul to every friend so dear, 

A breast so void of blame ; 
4 



Though twenty lustres rolling round 
With rising youth her nation crowned, 
In heart, in hand, should none be found 

Like Theron's honoured name. — 
Yes ! we have heard tlie factious lie ! — 
But let the babbling vulgar try 
To blot his worth with tyranny. — 

Seek thou the ocean strand ! — 
And when thy soul would fain record 
The bounteous deeds of yonder lord, 

Go — reckon up the sand ! 



III. 



TO THE SAME.' 

May my solemn strain ascending 

Please the long-haired Helen well, 

And those brave twins of Leda's shell 

The stranger's holy cause defending ! 

With whose high name the chorus blendinff 

To ancient Agragas shall rise, 

And Thcron for the chariot prize 

Again, and not in vain, contending. — 

The muse, in numbers bold and high, 

Hath taught my Dorian note to fly, 

Wortliy of silent awe, a strange sweet harmony. 

Yes ! — as I fix mine eager view 

On yonder wreath of paly blue, 

That olive wreath, whose shady round 

Amid the courser's mane is bounded ; 

I feel again the sacred glow 

That bids my strain of rapture flow. 

With shrilly breath of Spartan flute. 

The many-voiced harp to suit ; 

And wildly fling my numbers sweet. 

Again mine ancient friend to greet. — 

Nor, Pisa, thee I leave unstrung ; 

To men the parent of renown. 

Amid whose shady ringlets strung, 

Etolia binds her olive crown ; 

Whose sapling root from Scythia down 

And Ister's fount Alcides bare, (9) 

To deck his parent's hallowed town ; " 

With placid brow and suppliant prayer 

Soothing the favoured northern seed, 

Whose horny-hoofed victims bleed 

To Phoebus of the flowing hair. 

A boon from these the hero prayed : 
One graft of that delightful tree ; 
To Jove's high hill a welcome shade, 
To men a blessed fruit to be, 
And crown of future victory. — 
For that fair moon, whose slender light 
With inefficient horn had shone. 
When late on Pisa's airy height 
He reared to Jove the altar stone ; 



33 



HEBER'S POEMS. 



Now, through the dappled air, alone, 

In perfect ring of glory bright, 

Giiided her golden-wheeled throne ; 

The broad and burning eye of night.— 

And now the days were told aright, 

When Alpheus, from his sandy source, 

Should judge the champion's eager might, 

And mark of wheels the rolling force. — 

Nor yet a tree to cheer the sight 

The Cronian vale of Pelops bore ;— 

Obnoxious to the noonday weight 

Of summer suns, a naked shore. — 

But she who sways the silent sky, 

Latona's own equestrian maid. 

Beheld how far Alcides strayed. 

Bound on adventure strange and high : 

Forth from the glens of Arcady 

To Istrian rocks in ice arrayed 

He urged th' interminable race, 

(Such penance had Eurystheus laid,) 

The golden-horned hind to chase. 

Which, grateful for Diana's aid. 

By her redeemed from foul embrace. 

Old Atlas' daughter hallowed.— (10) 

Thus, following where the quarry fled. 

Beyond the biting North he past, 

Beyond the regions of the blast. 

And, all unknown to traveller's tread, 

He saw the blessed land at last. — 

He stopt, he gazed with new delight. 

When that strange verdure met his sight ; 

And soft desire enflamed his soul 

(Where twelve-times round the chariots roll,) 

To plant with such the Pisan goal. 

But now, unseen to mortal eyes. 

He comes to Theron's sacrifice ; 

And with him brings to banquet there 

High-bosomed Leda's knightly pair. — 

Himself to high Olympus bound, 

To these a latest charge he gave, 

A solemn annual feast to found. 

And of contending heroes round 

To deck the strong, the swift, the brave.— 

Nor doubt I that on Theron's head. 

And on the good Emmenides, 

The sons of Jove their blessings shed ; 

Whom still, with bounteous tables spread, 

That holy tribe delight to please ; 

Observing with religious dread 

The hospitable god's decrees.— 

But, wide as water passeth earthy clay, 

Or sun-bright gold transcendeth baser ore ; 

Wide as from Greece to that remotest shore 

Whose rock-built pillars own Alcides' sway ; 

Thy fame hath past thine equals! — To explore 

The further oceanall in vain essay. 

Or fools or wise ;— here from thy perilous way 

Cast anchor here, my bark ! I dare no more !— 



IV. 

TO PSAUMIS OF CAMAPJNA. 

Oh, urging on the tireless speed 
Of Thunder's elemental steed. 
Lord of the world. Almighty Jove ! 
Since these thine hours have me forth 
The witness of thy champions' worth. 
And prophet of thine olive grove ; — 
And since the good thy poet hear. 
And hold his tuneful message dear ; — 
Saturnian Lord of Etna hill ! — 
Whose storm-cemented rocks encage 
The hundred- headed rebel's rage ; 
Accept with favourable will 
The Muses' gift of harmony ; 
The dance, the song, whose numbers high 
Forbid the hero's dame to die, 
A crown of Ufe abiding still ! — 

Hark ! round the car of victory, 
Where noble Psaumis sits on high. 

The cheering notes resound ; 
Who vows to swell with added fame 
His Camarina's ancient name ; 

With Pisan olive crowned. — 
And thou, oh father, hear his prayer ! 
For much I praise the knightly cai^ 

That trains the warrior steed : — 
Nor less the hopitable hall 
Whose open doors the stranger call ; — 
Yet, praise I Psaumis most of all 

For wise and peaceful rede, 
And patriot love of liberty. — 
— What 1 — do we wave the glozing lie ?— 
Then whoso list my truth to try. 

The proof be in the deed ! — 
To Lemnos's laughing dames of yore. 
Such was the proof Ernicus bore,(Il) 

When, matchless in his speed, 
All brazen-armed the racer hoar. 
Victorious on the applauding shore, 

Sprang to the proffered meed ; — 
Bowed to the queen his wreathed head ; — 
" Thou seest my limbs are light," he said; 

" And, lady, may'st thou know, 
That every joint is firmly strung, 
And hand and heart alike are young; 
Though treacherous time my locks among 

Have strewed a summer snow !" 



TO THE SAME. 
Accept of these Olympian games the crown, 
Daughter of Ocean, rushy Camarine ! — 
The flower of knightly worth and high renown. 
Which car-borne Psaumis on thy parent shrine. 



TRANSLATIONS OF PINDAR. 



33 



(Psaumis, the patriot, whom thy peopled town 
Its second author owns,) with rite divine 
Suspends ! — His praise the twice six altars tell 
Of the great gods whom he hath feasted well 
With blood of bulls ; the praise of victory, 
Where cars and mules and steeds contest the prize ; 
And that green garland of renown to thee 
He hallows, virgin daughter of the sea ! 
And to his sire and household deities — 
Thee too, returning home from Pelops' land, 
Thee, guardian Pallas, and thy holy wood. 
He hails with song ; and cool Oanus' flood ; 
And of his native pool the rushy strand ; 
And thy broad bed, refreshing Hipparis, 
Whose silent waves the peopled city kiss ; 
That city which hath blest his bounteous hand, 
Rearing her goodly bowers on high. — (12) 
That now, redeemed from late disgrace, 
The wealthy mother of a countless race. 
She lifts her front in shining majesty. — 

'Tis ever thus ! by toil, and pain. 
And cumbrous cost, we strive to gain 
Some seeming prize whose issues lie 
In darkness and futurity. 
And yet, if conquest crown our aim. 
Then, foremost in the rolls of fame, 
Even from the envious herd a forced applause we 

claim. 
O cloud-enthroned, protecting Jove, 
Who sitt'st the Cronian cliffs above. 

And Alpheus' ample wave. 
And that dark gloom hast deigned to love 

Of Ida's holy cave ! 
On softest Lydian notes to thee 

I tune the choral prayer, 
That this thy town, the brave, the free. 
The strong in virtuous energy. 

May feel thine endless care. — 

And, victor thou, whose matchless might 

The Pisan wreath hath bound ; 
Still, Psaumis, be thy chief delight 

In generous coursers found. — 
Calm be thy latter age, and late 
And gently fall the stroke of fate, 

Thy children standing round ! — 
And knowr, when favouring gods have given 
A green old age, a temper even. 

And wealth and fame in store. 
The task were vain to scale the heaven ; — 

— Have those immortals more 1 



VI. 

TO AGESIAS OF SYRACUSE. 

Who seeks a goodly bower to raise, 
Conspicuous to the stranger's eye, 
With gold the lintel overlays, 
And clothes the porch in ivory. — 



So bright, so bold, so wonderful. 
The choicest themes of verse I cull. 

To each high song a frontal high ! — 
But, lives there one whose brows around 
The green Olympian wreath is bound ; 
Prophet and priest in those abodes 
Where Pisans laud the sire of gods ; 
And Syracusa's denizen 1 — 
Who, 'mid the sons of mortal men, 

While envy's self before his name 

Abates her rage, may fitlier claim 

Whate'er a bard may yield of famel 

For sure to no forbidden strife, 

In hallowed Pisa's field of praise, 

He came, the priest of blameless life ! — 

Nor who in peace hath past his days. 
Marring with canker sloth his might, 
May hope a name in standing fight 

Nor in the hollow ship to raise ! — 
By toil, illustrious toil alone. 
Of elder times the heroes shone ; 
And, bought by like emprize, to thcc, 
Oh warrior priest, like honour be! — 
Such praise as good Adrastus bore 
To him, the prophet chief(13) of yore. 
When, snatched from Thebes' accursed figlit^ 
With steed and car and armour bright, 
Dovyn, down he sank to earthly night. 

When the fight was ended, 
And the sevenfold pyres 
All their funeral fires 
In one sad lustre blended. 

The leader of the host 

Murmured mournfully, 

" I lament for the eye 

Of all mine army lost! — 

To gods and mortals dear. 

Either art he knew; 

Augur tried and true. 

And strong to wield the spear !" 

And by the powers divine. 

Such praise is justly thine. 

Oh Syracusian peer. 
For of a gentle blood thy race is sprung. 
As she shall truly tell, the muse of honeyed tongue. 

Then yoke the mules of winged pace. 
And, Phintis, climb the car with me ;(H) 
For well they know the path to trace 
Of yonder victor's pedigree ! — 

Unbar the gates of song, unbar ! — 

For we to day must journey far, 
To Sparta, and to Pitane. — 

She, mournful nymph, and nursing long 
Her silent pain and virgin wrong. 



34 



HEBER'S POEMS. 



To Neptune's rape a daughter fair, 

Evadne of the glossy hair, 

(Dark as the violet's darkest shade,) 

In solitary sorrow bare. 

Then to her nurse the infant maid 

She weeping gave, and bade convey 

To high Phersana's hall away : 

Where woman-grown, and doomed to prove 

In turn a god's disastrous love. 

Her charms allured the lord of day. 

Nor long the months, ere, fierce in pride, 

The painful tokens of disgrace 

Her foster-father sternly eyed, 

Fruit of the furtive god's embrace. — 
He spake not, but, with soul on flame, 
He sought th' unknown offender's name. 

At Phcebus' Pythian dwelling place. — 

But she, beneath the greenwood spray, 
Her zone of purple silk untied ; 
And flung the silver clasp away 
That rudely pressed her heaving side ;(15) 
While, in the solitary wood, 
Lucina's self to aid her stood, 
And fate a secret force supplied. — 

But, who the mother's pang can tell 

As sad and slowly she withdrew, 

And bade her babe a long farewell, 

Laid on a bed of violets blue '? 

When ministers of Heaven's decree, 
(Dire nurses they and strange to see,) 

Two scaly snakes of azure hue 
Watched o'er his helpless infancy, 
And, rifled from the mountain bee, 
Bare oh their forky tongues a harmless honey dew.- 

Swift roll the wheels ! from Delphos home 
Arcadia's car-borne chief is come ; 

But, ah, how changed his eye ! — 
His wrath is sunk, and past his pride, 
" Where is Evadne's babe," he cried, 

"Child of the deity 1 
'"T was thus the augur god replied, 
"Nor strove his noble seed to hide ; 
" And to his favoured boy, beside, 

" The gift of prophecy, 
" And power beyond the sons of men 
" The secret things of fate to ken, 

" His blessing will supply." — 

But, vainly, from his liegemen round, 

He sought the noble child ; 
Who, naked on the grassy ground. 

And nurtured in the wild. 
Was moistened with the sparkling dew 

Beneath his hawthorn bower; 
Where morn her wat'ry radiance threw, 
Now golden bright, now deeply blue. 

Upon the violet flower. — 



Prom that dark bed of breathing bloom 

His mother gave his name; 
And lamus, through years to come. 

Will live in lasting fame ; 
Who, when the blossom of his days. 

Had ripened on the tree. 
From forth the brink where Alpheus strays, 
Invoked the god whose sceptre sways 

The hoarse resounding sea ; 
And, whom the Delian isle obe3'S, 

The archer deity.— 
Alone amid the nightly shade. 
Beneath the naked heaven he prayed. 
And sire and grandsire called to aid ; 
When lo, a voice that loud and dread 

Burst from the horizon free ; 
" Hither !" it spake, " to Pisa's shore! 
"My voice, oh son, shall go before, 

"Beloved, follow me !" — 

So, in the visions of his sire, he went 
Where Cronium's scarred and barren brow 
Was red with morning's earliest glow 

Though darkness wrapt the nether element.— 
There, in a lone and craggy dell, 
A double spirit on him fell, 
Th' unlying voice of birds to tell, 
And, (when Alcmena's son should found 
The holy games in Elis crowned,) 

By Jove's high altar evermore to dwell. 
Prophet and priest ! — From him descend 
The fathers of our valiant friend. 
Wealthy alike and just and wise. 
Who trod the plain and open way ; 
And who is he that dare despise 
With galling taunt the Cronian prize. 
Or their illustrious toil gainsay. 
Whose chariots whirling twelve times round 
With burning wheels the Olympian ground 
Have gilt their brow with glory's ray "? 

For, not the steams of sacrifice 

From cool Cyllene's height of snow,(16) 

Nor vainly from thy kindred rise 

The heaven-appeasing litanies 

To Hermes, who to men below, 

Or gives the garland or denies : — 

By whose high aid, Agesias, know, 

And his, the thunderer of the skies, 

The olive wreath hath bound thy brow ! — 

Arcadian ! Yes, a warmer zeal 

Shall whet my tongue thy praise to tell ! 

I feel the sympathetic flame 

Of kindred love ; — a Theban I, • 

Whose parent nymph from Arcady 

(Metope's daughter, Thebe) came. — 

Dear fountain goddess, warrior maid, 

By whose pui-e rills my youth hath played ; 



TRANSLATIONS OF PINDAR. 



35 



Who now assembled Greece among, 
To car-borne chiefs and warriors strong, 
Have wove the many-coloured song. — 

Then, minstrel! bid thy chorus rise 

To Juno, queen of deities, (17) 

Parthenian lady of the skies! 

For, live there yet who dare defame 

With sordid mirth our country's name ; 

Who tax with scorn our ancient line. 

And call the brave Boeotians swine; — 

Yet, jEneas, sure thy numbers high 

May charm their brutish enmity ; 

Dear herald of the holy muse, 

And teeming with Parnassian dews, 

Cup of untasted harmony! — 

That strain once more ! — The chorus raise 

To S^'racusa's wealthy praise. 

And his the lord whose happy reign 

Controls Trincria's ample plain, 

Hiero, the just, the wise, 

Whose steamy offerings rise 
To Jove, to Ceres, and that darling maid, 

Whom, rapt in chariot bright, 

And horses silver-white, 
Down to his dusky bower the lord of hell conveyed 

Oft hath he heard the muses' string resound 
His honoured name ; and may his latter days. 
With wealth and worth, and minstrel garlands 

crowned, 
Mark with no envious ear a subject praise, (18) 
Who now from fair Arcadia's forest wide 
To Syracusa, homeward, from his home 
Returns, a common care, a common pride, — 
(And, whoso darkling braves the ocean foam, 
May safeliest moored with twofold anchor ride.) 
Arcadia, Sicily, on either side 
Guard him with prayer ; and thou who rulest the 

deep. 
Fair Amphitrite's lord ! in safety keep 
His tossing keel, — and evermore to me 
No meaner theme assign of poesy ! 



NOTES. 

Note 1, page 23, col. 2. 

The fouith witli that tormented three. 

The three were Sisyphus, Tityus, and Ixion. 
The author of the Odyssey, or, at least, of that 
passage which describes the punishments of Tan- 
talus, assigns him an eternity of hunger, thirst, and 
disappointment. Which of these opinions is most 
ancient, is neitlier very easy nor very material to 
decide. The impending rock of Pindar is perhaps 
a less appropriate, but surely, a more picturesque 
mode of punishment. 



Note 2, page 29, col. 1. 

Car-borne Pisa's royal maid. 

CEnomaus, king of Pisa, had promised his daugh- 
ter, the heiress of his states, in marriage to any 
warrior who should excel him in the chariot race, 
on condition however that the candidates should 
stake their lives on the issue. Thirteen had essay- 
ed and perished before Pelops. 

Note 3, page 29, col. 2. 
Sleeps beneath the piled ground. 
Like all other very early tombs, the monument 
of Pelops was a barrow ox earthen mound. I know 
not whether it may still be traced. The spot is 
very accurately pointed out, and such works are 
not easily obliterated. 

Note 4, page 29, col. 2. 
God who beholdcth thee and all thy deeds. 
The solemnity of this pr.ayer contrasted with 
its object, that Hiero might again succeed in the 
chariot race, is ridiculous to modern ears. I do 
not indeed believe that the Olympic and other 
games had so much importance attached to them 
by the statesmen and warriors of Greece, as is pre- 
tended by the sophists of later ages ; but where the 
manners are most simple, public exhibitions, it 
should be remembered, are always most highly es- 
timated, and religious prejudicecombined with the 
ostentation of wealth to give distinction to the 
Olympic contests. 

Note 5, page 30, col. 1. 
The flower of no ignoble race. 
Theron was a descendant of GEdipus, and con 
sequently of Cadmus. His family had, through 
a long line of ancestors, been remarkable, both in 
Greece and Sicily, for misfortune; and he was 
himself unpopular with his subjects and engaged 
in civil war. Allusions to these circumstances of- 
ten occur in the present ode. 

Note 6* page 30, col. 2. 

He whom none may name. 

In the original " t«," " a certain nameless per- 
son." The ancients were often scrupulous about 
pronouncing the names of t'leir gods, particularly 
those who presided over the region of future hopes 
and fears; a scruple corresponding with the Rab- 
binical notions of the ineffable word. The pic- 
tures which follow present a striking discrepancy 
to the mythology of Homer, and of the general 
herd of Grecian poets, whose Zeus is as far infe- 
rior to the one supreme divinity of Pindar, as the 
religion of Pindar himself falls short of the clear- 
ness and majesty of Revelation. The connexion 
of these Eleusiiiian doctrines with those of Hin- 
dustan, is in many points suflicicntly striking. 



36 



HEBER'S POEMS. 



Southey and Pindar might seem to have drunk at 
the same source. 

Note 7, page 31, col. 1. 
Nor Jove has Thetis' prayer denied. 
I know not why, except for his brutahty to the 
body of Hector, Achilles is admitted with so much 
difficulty into the islands of the blessed. That 
this was considered in the time of Pindar as suffi- 
cient to exclude him without particular interces- 
sion, shows at least that a great advance had been 
made in moral feehng since the days of Homer. 

Note 8, pa^e 31, col. 1. 

Trained in study's formal hour, 

There are who hate tlie minstrel's power. 

It was not likely that Pindar's peculiarities 
should escape criticism, nor was his temper such 
as to bear it with a very even mind. He treats 
his rivals and assailants with at least a sufficient 
portion of disdain as servile adherents to rule, and 
mere students without genius. Some of their sar- 
casms passed however into proverbs. " Aioc Kopiv- 
•S-o?," an expression in ridicule of Pindar's perpe- 
tual recurrence to mythology and antiquities, is 
preserved in the Phtedon; while his occasional 
mention of himself and his own necessities, is pa- 
rodied by Aristophanes. I can not but hope, how- 
ever, that the usual conduct of Pindar himself, 
was less obtrusive and importunate than that of 
the Dithyrambic poet who intrudes on the festival 
of Nephelocoggugia, like the Gaslic bard in " Christ's 
kirk o' the green." 

Note 9, page 31, col. 2. 

Whose sapling root from Scythian down 
And Ister's fount Alcides bare. 

There seems to have been, in all countries, a 
disposition to place a region of peculiar happiness 
and fertility among inaccessible mountains, and at 
the source of their principal rivers. Perhaps, in- 
deed, the Mount Meru of Hindustan, the blame- 
less Ethiopians at the head of the Nile, and the 
happy Hyperborean regions at the source of the 
Ister, are only copies of the garden and river of 
God in Eden. Some truth is undoubtedly mixed 
with the tradition here preserved by Pindar. The 
olive was not indigenous in Greece, and its first 
specimens were planted near Pisa. That they as- 
cribed its introduction to the universal hero, Her- 
cules' and derived its stock from the land of the 
blessed, need not be wondered at by those who 
know the importance of such a present. The Hy- 
perborean or Atlantic region, which continually 
receded in proportion as Europe was explored, still 
seems to have kept its ground in the fancies of the 
vulgar, under the names of the island of St. Bran- 
dan, of Flath Innis, or the fortunate land of Cock- 



ayne, till the discovery of America peopled the 
western ocean with something less illusive. 



Note 10, page 32, col. 1. 
Old Atlas' daughter hallowed. 



Taygeta. 



Note 11, page 32, col. 2. 

To Lemnos' laughing dames of yore, 
Such was the proof Ernicus bore. 

Ernicus was one of the Argonauts, who distin- 
guished himself in the games celebrated at Lem- 
nos by its hospitable queen Hypsipile, as victor in 
the foot-race of men clothed in armour. He was 
prematurely gray-headed, and therefore derided by 
the Lemnian women before he had given this proof 
of his vigour. It is not impossible that Psaumis had 
the same singularity of appearance. 

There is a sort of playfulness in this ode, which 
would make us suspect that Pindar had no very 
sincere respect for the character of Psaumis. Per- 
haps he gave ofTence by it ; for the following poem 
to the same champion is in a very different style. 

Note 12, page 33, col. 1. 
Rearing her goodly towers on high. 
Camarina had been lately destroyed by fire, and 
rebuilt in a great measure by the liberality of Psau- 
mis. 

Note 13, page 33, col. 2. 

Such praise as good Adraistus bore 
To him the prophet chief. 

The prophet chief is Amphiaraus, who was 
swallowed up by the earth before the attack of Po- 
lynices and his allies on Thebes, either because 
the gods determined to rescue his virtues from the 
stain of that odious conflict ; or according to the 
sagacious Lydgatc, because, being a sorcerer and 
a pagan " byshoppe," the time of his compact was 
expired, and the infernal powers laid claim to him. 

Note 14, page 33, col. 2. 

Then yoke the mules of winged pace, 
And Phintis climb the car with me. 

Agesias had been victor in the Apene or chariot 
drawn by mules ; Phintis was, probably, his cha- 
rioteer. 

Note 15, page 34, col. 1. 

And flung the silver clasp away 
That rudely prest her heaving side. 

I venture in the present instance to translate 
" KAKTrtg'' a clasp, because it was undoubtedly used 
for the stud or buckle to a horse's bit, as " Ka.\7ra.^iii^ 
signifies to run by a horse's side holding the bridle. 
The " nctKv^" too, appended to the belt of Hercu- 
les, vfhich he left with his Scythian mistress, should 



TRANSLATIONS FROM THE HINDOOSTANEE. 



37 



seem, from the manner in which Herodotus men- 
tions it, to have been a clasp or stud, nor can I in 
the present passage understand why the pregnant 
Evadne should encumber herself with a water-pot, 
or why the water-pot and zone should be mention- 
ed as laid aside at the same time. But the round 
and cup-like form of an antique clasp may well 
account for such names being applied to it. 

Note 16, page 34, col. 2. 

Cool Cyllene's height of snow. 

Cyllene was a mountain in Arcadia dedicated 
to Mercury. 

Note 17, page 35, col. 1 . 

Then, minstrel! bid thy chora-^ rise 

To Juno queen of deities. 
Such passages as this appear to prove, first, that 
the Odes of Pindar, instead of being danced and 
chaunted by a chorus of hired musicians and ac- 
tors, in the absurd and impossible manner pretend- 
ed by the later Grecian writers, (whose ignorance 
respecting their own antiquities, is in many instan- 
ces apparent,) were recited by the poet himself 
sitting, (his iron chair was long preserved at Del- 
phos,) and accompanied by one or more musicians, 
such as the Theban ^Eneas whom he here com- 
pliments. Secondly, what will account at once 
for the inequalities of his style and the rapidity of 
his transitions, we may infer that the Dincagan 
swan was, often at least, an " improvisatore." I 
know not the origin of the Boeotian agnomen of 
swine. In later times we find their region called 
" vervecum patria." 

Note 18, page 35, col. 1. 
Mark with no envious ear a subject's praise. 
Either the poet was led by his vanity to ascribe 
a greater consequence to his verses than tliey real- 
ly possessed, when he supposes that the praise of 
Agesias may move his sovereign to jealousy ; or 
we may infer from this little circumstance that the 
importance attached to the Olympic prize has not 
been so greatly overrated by poets and antiquaries, 
and that it was indeed " a gift more valuable than 
a hundred trophies." 



TRANSLATIONS 

FROM THE 

HINDOOSTANEE. 



SONNET BY THE LATE NAWAB OF 
OUDE, ASUF UD DOWLA. 

In those eyes the tears that glisten as in pity for 

my pain. 
Are they gems, or only dew-drops 1 can they, will 

they long remain ? 



Why thy strength of tyrant beauty thus, with seem- 
ing ruth, restrain? 

Better breathe my last before thee, than in linger- 
ing grief remain ! 

To yon planet. Fate has given every month to wax 

and wane ; 
And— thy world of blushing brightness— can it, 

will it, long remain 1 

Health and youth in balmy moisture on thy cheek 

their seat maintain ; 
But — the dew that steeps the rose-bud — can it, will 

it long remain 1 

Asuf! why, in mournful numbers, of thine absence 

thus complain, 
Chance had joined us, chance has parted! — nought 

on earth can long remain. 

In the world, may'st thou, beloved ! live exempt 

from grief and pain ! 
On my lips the breath is fleeting, can it, will it 

long remain? 



FROM THE GULISTAN. 

"Brother! know the world deceiveth! 
Trust on Him who safely giveth ! 
Fix not on the world thy trust. 
She feeds us — but she turns to dust. 
And the bare earth or kingly throne 
Alike may serve to die upon !" 



FROM THE SAME. 

" The man who leaveth life behind. 
May well and boldly speak his mind ; 
Where flight is none from battle field. 
We blithely snatch the sword and shield ; 
Where hope is past, and hate is strong. 
The wretch's tongue is sharp and long ; 
Myself have seen, in wild despair, 
The feeble cat the mastiff tear." 



FROM THE SAME. 

" Who the silent man can prize, 
If a fool he be or wise? 
Yet, though lonely seem the wood. 
Therein may lurk the beast of blood. 
Often bashful looks conceal 
Tongue of fire and heart of steel, 
And deem not thou in forest gray. 
Every dappled skin thy prey ; 
Lest thou rouse, with luckless spear, 
The ticrer for the fallow-deer!" 



38 



HEBER'S POEMS. 



THE PASSAGE OF THE RED SEA. 
With heat o'erlaboured and the length of way, 
On Ethan's beach the bands of Israel lay. 
'T was silence all, the sparkling sands along, 
Save where the locust trilled her feeble song. 
Or blended soft in drowsy cadence fell 
The wave's low whisper or the camel's bell. — 
' T was silence all ! — the flocks for shelter fly 
Where, waving hght, the acacia shadows lie ; 
Or where, from far, the flattering vapours make 
The noon-tide semblance of a misty lake : 
While the mute swain, in careless safety spread. 
With arms enfolded, and dejected head, 
Dreams o'er his wondrous call, his lineage high. 
And, late revealed, his children's destiny. 
For, not in vain, in thraldom's darkest hour. 
Had sped from Amram's sons the word of power; 
Nor failed the dreadful wand, whose god-like sway 
Could lure the locust from her airy way; 
With reptile war assail their proud abodes, 
And mar the giant pomp of Egypt's gods. 
Oh helpless gods ! who nought availed to shield 
From fiery rain your Zoan's favoured field ! — 
Oh helpless gods ! who saw the curdled blood 
Taint the pure lotus of your ancient flood. 
And fourfold-night the wondering earth enchain. 
While Memnon's orient harp was heard in vain ! — 
Such musings held the tribes, till now the west 
With milder influence on their temples prest; 
And that portentous cloud which, all the day. 
Hung its dark curtain o'er their weary way, 
(A cloud by day, a friendly flame by night,) 
Rolled back its misty veil, and kindled into light ! — 
Soft fell the eve :-^But, ere the day was done, 
Tall, waving banners streaked the level sun ; 
And wide and dark along th' horizon red. 
In sandy surge the rising desert spread. — 
" Mark, Israel, mark '." — On that strange sight in- 
tent, 
In breathless terror, every eye was bent ; 
And busy faction's undistinguished hum 
And female shrieks arose, " They come, they 

come 1" 
They come, they come ! in scintillating show 
O'er the dark mass the brazen lances glow ; 
And sandy clouds in countless sliapes combine, 
As deepens or extends the long tumultuous line ; 
And fancy's keener glance e'en now may trace 
The threatening aspects of each mingled race ; 
For many a coal-black tribe and cany spear. 
The hireling guards of Misraim's throne, were 
there. 



From distant Gush they trooped, a warrior train, 
Siwah's(l) green isle and Sennaar's marly plain: 
On either wing their fiery coursers check 
The parched and sinewy sons of Amalek : 
While close behind, inured to feast on blood. 
Decked in Behemoth's spoils, the tall Shangalla(2) 

strode. 
'Mid blazing helms and bucklers rough with gold 
Saw ye how svrift the scythed chariot rolled'? 
Lo, these are they whom, lords of Afric's fates, 
Old Thebes had poured through all her hundred 

gates, . 
Mother of armies ! — How the emeralds(3) glowed, 
Where, flushed with power and vengeance, Pha- 
raoh rode 1 
And stoled in white, those brazen wheels before, 
Osiris' ark his swarthy wizards bore ; 
And still responsive to the trumpet's cry 
The prie.stly sistrum murmured — Victory? — 
Why swell these shouts that rend the desert's 

gloom? 
Whom come ye forth to combat? — warriors, 

whom? — 
These flocks and herds — this faint and weary 

train — 
Red from the scourge and recent from the chain? 
God of the poor, the poor and friendless save ! 
Giver and Lord of freedom, help the slave !-^ 
North, south, and west the sandy whirlwinds fly, 
The circling horns of Egypt's chivalry. 
On earth's last margin throng the weeping train : 
Their cloudy guide moves on : — " And must we 

swim tlie main ?" 
'Mid the light spray their snorting camels stood, 
Nor bathed a fetlock in the nauseous flood — 
He comes — their leader comes ! — the man of God 
O'er the wide waters lifts his mighty rod. 
And onward treads — The circling waves retreat 
In hoarse deep murmurs, from his holy feet ; 
And the chased surges, inly roaring, show 
The hard wet sand and coral hills below. 

With limbs that falter, and with hearts that 

swell, 
Down, down the)' pass — a steep and slippery dell 
Around them rise, in pristine chaos hurled, 
The ancient rocks, the secrets of the world; 
And flowers that blush beneath the ocean green, 
And caves, the sea-calves' low-roofed haunt, are 

seen. 
Down, safely down the narrow pass they tread ; 
The beetling waters storm above their head ; 
I While far behind retires the sinking day, 
i And fades on Edom's hills its latest ray. 



MISCELLANEOUS. 



39 



Yet not from Israel fled the friendly light, 
Or dark to them, or cheerless came the night, 
Still in their van, along that dreadful road. 
Blazed broad and fierce the brandished torch of 

God. 
Its meteor glare a tenfold lustre gave 
On the long mirror of the rosy wrave: 
While its blest beams a sunlike heat supply, 
Warm every cheek and dance in every eye — 
To them alone — for Misraim's wizard train 
Invoke for light their monster-gods in vain : 
Clouds heaped on clouds their struggling sight con- 
fine, 
And tenfold darkness broods above their line. 
Yet on they fare by reckless vengeance led, 
And range unconscious through the ocean's bed. 
Till midway now — that strange and fiery form 
Showed his dread visage lightening through the 

storm ; 
With withering splendour blasted all their might, 
And brake their chariot-wheels, and marred their 

coursers' flight. 
"Fly, Misraim, fly!" — The ravenous floods they 

see. 
And, fiercer than the floods, the Deity. 
" Fly, Misraim, fly!" — From Edom's coral strand 
Again the prophet stretched liis dreadful wand : — 
With one wild crash the thundering waters sweep, 
And all is waves — a dark and lonely deep — 
Yet o'er those lonely waves such murmurs past. 
As mortal wailing swelled the nightly blast: 
And strange and sad the whispering breezes bore 
The groans of Egypt to Arabia's shore. 

Oh ! welcome came the morn, where Israel stood 
In trustless wonder by th' avenging flood ! 
Oh ! welcome came the cheerful morn, to show 
The drifted wreck of Zoan's pride below; 
The mangled limbs of men — the broken car — 
A few sad relics of a nation's war : 
Alas, how few! — Then, soft as Elim's well,(3) 
The precious tears of new-born freedom fell. 
And he, whose hardened heart alike had borne 
The house of bondage nnd th' oppressor's scorn. 
The stubborn slave, by hope's new beams subdued, 
In faltering accents sobbed his gratitude — 
Till kindling into warmer zeal, around 
The virgin timbrel waked its silver sound: 
And in fierce joy, no more by doubt supprest. 
The struggling spirit throbbed in Miriam's breast. 
She, with bare arms, and fixing on the sky, 
The dark transparence of her lucid eye, ' 

Poured on the winds of heaven her wild sweet har- 
mony, j 
" Where now," she sang, " the tall Egyptian 

spear 1 
" On's sunlike shield, and Zoan's chariot, where 1 
" Above their ranks the whelming waters spread. 
" Shout, Israel, for the Lord has triumphed !" — i 



And every pause between, as Miriam sang, 
From tribe to tribe the martial thunder rang, 
And loud and far their stormy chorus spread, — ■ 
" Shout, Israel, for the Lord hath triumphed !" 



LINES 

SPOKEN IN THE THEATRE, OXFORD, ON LORD GREN- 
VILLE's INSTALLATION AS CHANCELLOR. 

Ye viewless guardians of these sacred shades,(4) 
Dear dreams of early song, Aonian maids ! — 
And you, illustrious dead ! whose spirits speak 
In every flush that tints the student's cheek, 
As, wearied with the world, he seeks again 
The page of better times and greater men ; 
If with pure worship we your steps pursue, 
And youth, and health, and rest forget for you, 
(Wiiom most we serve, to whom our lamp burns 

briglit 
Through the long toils of not ingrateful night, J 
Yet, yet be present ! — Lot the workUy train 
Mock our cheap joys, and hate our useless strain, 
Intent on freighted wealth, or proud to rear 
The fleece Iberian or the pampered steer; — 
Let sterner science with unwearied eye 
Explore the circling spheres and map the sky; 
His long-drawn mole let lordly commerce scan, 
And of his iron arch the rainbow span : 
Yet, while, in burning characters imprest, 
The poet's lesson stamps the youthful breast 
Bids the rapt boy o'er suffering virtue bleed, 
Adore a brave or bless a gentle deed. 
And in warm feeling from the storied page 
Arise the saint, the hero, or the sage; 
Such be our toil I — Nor doubt we to explore 
The thorny maze of dialectic lore. 
To climb the chariot of the gods, or scan 
The secret workings of tlie soul of man ; 
Upborne aloft on Plato's eagle flight. 
Or the slow pinion of the Stagyrite. 
And those gray spoils of Herculanean pride. 
If aught of yet untasted sweets they hide ; — 
If Padua's sage be there, or art have power 
To wake Menander from his secret bower. 
Snch be our toil ! — Nor vain the labour proves. 
Which Oxford honours, and which Grenville 

loves ! 
— On, eloquent and firm ! — whose warning high 
Rebuked the rising surge of anarchy. 
When, hke those brethren stars to seamen known, 
In kindred splendour Pitt and Grenville shone ; 
On in thy glorious course ! not yet the wave 
Has ceased to lash the shore, nor storm forgot to 

rave. 
Go on ! and oh, while adverse factions raise 
To thy pure worth involuntary praise ; 
While Gambia's swarthy tribes thy mercies bless, 
And from thy counsels date their happiness ; 



40 



HEBER'S POEMS. 



Say, (for thine Isis yet recalls with pride 

Thy youthful triumphs by her leafy side,) 

Say, hast thou scorned, mid pomp, and wealth, 

and power. 
The sober transports of a studious hour? — 
No, statesman, no ! — thy patriot fire was fed 
From the warm embers of the mighty dead ; 
And thy strong spirit's patient grasp- combined 
The souls of ages in a single mind. 
■ — By arts like these, amidst a world of foes, 
Eye of the earth, th' Athenian glory rose ; — 
Thus, last and best of Romans, Brutus shone ; 
Our Somers thus, and thus our Clarendon ; 
Such Cobham was; such, Grenville, long be thou, 
Our boast before — our chief and champion now ! 



EPITAPH ON A YOUNG NAVAL OFFI- 
CER, 

DESIGNED FOR A TOMB IN A SEAPORT TOWN IN 
NORTH WALES. 

Sailor ! if vigour nerve thy frame, 

If to high deeds thy soul is strung, 
Revere this stone that gives to fame 

The brave, the virtuous, and the young ! — (5) 

For manly beauty decked his form, 

His bright eye beamed with mental power ; 

Resistless as the winter storm. 
Yet mild as summer's mildest shower. 

In war's hoarse rage, in ocean's strife. 
For skill, for force, for mercy known; 

Still prompt to shield a comrade's life, 
And greatly careless of his own. — 

Yet youthful seaman, mourn not thou 

The fate these artless lines recall ; 
No, Cambrian, no, be thine the vow, 

Like him to live,. like him to fall! — 

But hast thou known a father's care. 
Who sorrowing sent thee forth to sea; 

Poured for thy weal th' unceasing prayer. 
And thought the sleepless night on thee 1 

Has e'er thy tender fancy flown. 

When winds were strong and waves were high, 
Where, listening to the tempest's moan, 

Thy sisters heaved the anxious sighl 

Or, in the darkest hour of dread. 

Mid war's wild din, and ocean's swell. 

Hast mourned a hero brother dead. 
And did that brother love thee well "? — 

Then pity those whose sorrows flow 
In vain o'er Shipley's empty grave ! — 

— Sailor, thou weep'st : — Indulge thy wo ; 
Such tears will not disgrace the brave ! — 



AN EVENING WALK IN BENGAL. 

Our task is done ! on Gunga's breast(6) 
The sun is sinking down to rest ; 
And moored beneath the tamarind bough, 
Our bark has found its harbour now. 
With furled sail and painted side, 
Behold the tiny frigate ride. 
Upon her deck, 'mid charcoal gleams, 
The Moslems' savoury supper steams, 
While all apart, beneath the wood, 
The Hindoo cooks his simpler food. 

Come walk with me the jungle through; 
If yonder hunter told us true. 
Far off, in desert dank and rude, 
The tiger holds his sohtude ; 
Nor (taught by secret charm to shun 
The thunders of the English gun,) 
A dreadful guest but rarely seen. 
Returns to scare the village green. 
Come boldly on ! no venomed snake 
Can shelter in so cool a brake: 
Child of the sun ! ho loves to lie 
'Mid nature's embers parched and dry, 
Where o'er some tower in ruin laid, 
The peepul spreads its haunted shade, 
Or round a tomb his' scales to wreathe, 
Fit warder in the gate of death ! 
Come on ! yet pause ! behold us now 
Beneath the bamboo's arched bough. 
Where gemming oft that sacred gloom, 
Glows the geranium's scarlet bloom. 
And winds our path through many a bower 
Of fragrant tree and giant flower ; 
The ceiba's crimson pomp displayed 
O'er the broad plaintain's humbler shade. 
And dusk anana's prickly blade ; 
While o'er the brake, so wild and fair, 
The betel waves his crest in air. 
With pendent train and rushing wings, 
Aloft the gorgeous peacock springs ; 
And he, the bird of hundred dyes,(7) 
Whose plumes the dames of Ava prize. 
So rich a shade, so green a sod. 
Our English fairies never trod; 
Yet who in Indian bower has stood. 
But thought on England's "good green wood?' 
And blessed beneath the palmy shade. 
Her hazel and her hawthorn glade. 
And breathed a prayer, (how oft in vain !) 
To gaze upon her oaks again? 

A truce to thought! the jackal's cry 
Resounds like sylvan revelry; 
And through the trees, yon failing ray 
Will scantly serve to guide our way. 
Yet, mark ! as fade the upper skies. 
Each thicket opes ten thousand eyes. • 
Before, beside us, and above. 
The fire-fly lights his lamp of love. 



MISCELLANEOUS. 



41 



Retreating, chasing, sinking, soaring, 
The darkness of the copse exploring; 
While to this cooler air confest, 
The broad Dhatura bares her breast, 
Of fragrant scent, and virgin white, 
A pearl around the locks of night ! 
Still as we pass in softened hum, 
Along the breezy valleys come 
The village song, the horn, the drum. 
Still as we pass, from bush and briar, 
The shrill cigala strikes his lyre ; 
And, what is she whose liquid strain 
Thrills through yon copse of sugar-cane ? 
I know that soul-entrancing swell ! 
It is, — it must be, — Philomel ! 

Enough, enough, the rustling trees 
Announce a shower upon the breeze, — 
The flashes of the summer sky 
Assume a deeper, ruddier dye ; 
Yon lamp that trembles on the stream, 
From forth our cabin sheds its beam; 
And we must early sleep to find 
Betimes the morning's healthy wind. 
But O ! with thankful hearts confess, 
Ev'n here there may be happiness ; 
And He, the bounteous Sire, has given 
His peace on earth, his hope of heaven ! 



LINES WRITTEN TO HIS WIFE, 

WHILE ON A VISIT TO UPPER INDIA. 

If thou wert by my side, my love! 

How fast would evening fail 
In green Bengala's palmy grove, 

Listening the nightingale ! ^ 

If thou, my love ! wert by my side. 

My babies at my knee. 
How gaily would our pinnace glide 

O'er Gunga's mimic sea ! 

I miss thee at the dawnin<r gray, 

When, on our deck reclined, 
In careless ease my limbs I lay, 

And woo the cooler wind. 

I miss thee when by Gunga's stream 

My twilight steps I guide, 
But most beneath the lamp's pale beam, 

I miss thee from my side. 

I spread my books, my pencil try. 

The lingering noon to cheer, 
But miss thy kind approving eye 

Thy meek attentive ear. 

But when of morn and eve the star 

Beholds me on my knee, 
I feel, though thou art distant far, 

Thy prayers ascend for me. 



Then on ! Then on ! where duty leads, 

My course be onward still, 
On broad Hindostaii's sultry meads, 

O'er black Almorah's hill. 

That course, nor Delhi's kingly gates, 

Nor mild Malwah detain,* 
For sweet the bliss us both awaits. 

By yonder western main. 

Thy towers, Bombay, gleam bright, they say, 

Across the dark blue sea. 
But never were hearts so light and gay, 

As then shall meet in thee ! 



HAPPINESS, 

One morning in the month of May, 

I wandered o'er the hill ; 
Though nature all around was gay. 

My heart was heavy still. 

Can God, I thought, the just, the great. 
These meaner creatures bless, 

And yet deny to man's estate 
The boon of happiness 7 

Tell me, ye woods, ye smiling plains. 

Ye blessed birds around. 
In which of nature's wide domains 

Can bliss for man be found. 

The birds wild carolled over head. 

The breeze around me blew. 
And nature's awful chorus said — 

No bliss for man she knew. 

I questioned love, whose early ray. 

So rosy bright appears. 
And heard the timid genius say 

His hght was dimmed by tears. 

I questioned friendship : Friendship sighed, 

And thus her answer gave — 
The few whom fortune never tried 

Were withered in the grave ! 

I asked if vice could bliss bestow 1 

Vice boasted loud and well, 
But fading from her withered brow, 

The borrowed roses fell. 

I sought of feeling, if her skill 
Could sooth the wounded breast ; 

And found her mourning, faint and still. 
For others' woes distressed ! 

I questioned virtue : virtue sighed. 

No boon could she dispense — 
Nor virtue was her name, she cried 

But humble penitence. 



43 



HEBER'S POEMS. 



I questioned death — the grisly shade 
Relaxed his brow severe — 

And " I am happiness," he said, 
" If Virtue guides thee here." 



THE MOONLIGHT MARCH. 

I SEE them on their winding way, 

About their ranks the moonbeams play ; 

Their lofty deeds and daring high 

Blend with the notes of victory. 

And waving arms, and banners bright, 

Are glancing in the mellow light : 

They 're lost — and gone, the moon is past. 

The wood's dark shade is o'er them cast ; 

And fainter, fainter, fainter still 

The march is rising o'er the hill. 

Again, again, the pealing drum. 
The clashing horn — they come, they come ; 
Through rocky pass, o'er wooded steep 
In long and glittering files they sweep. 
And nearer, nearer, yet more near, 
Their softened chorus meets the ear; 
Forth, forth, and meet them on their way ; 
The trampling hoofs brook no delay; 
With thrilhng fife and pealing drum. 
And clashing horn, they come, they come. 



LINES. 

Reflected on the lake I love 
To see the stars of evening glow ; 

So tranquil in the heavens above, 
So restless in the wave below. 

Thus heavenly hope is all serene. 
But earthly hope, how bright so e.'er, 

Still fluctuates o'er this changing scene, 
As false and fleeting as 'tis fair. 



FAREWELL. 

When eyes are beaming 
What never tongue might tell, 

When tears are streaming 
From their crystal cell ; 

When hands are linked that dread to part, 

And heart is met by throbbing heart, 

Oh ! bitter, bitter is the smar 
Of them that bid farewell ! 

When hope is chidden 

That fain of bliss would tell, 
And love forbidden 

In the breast to dwell ; 



When fettered by a viewless chain, 
We turn and gaze, and turn again, 
Oh ! death were mercy to the pain 
Of them that bid farewell! 



VESPERS. 

God that madest Earth and Heaven, 

Darkness and light ! 
Who the day for toil hast given, 

For rest the night ! 
May thine angel guards defend us, 
Slumber sweet thy mercy send us, 
Holy dreams and hopes attend us, 

This livelong night ! 



TO LIEUTENANT-GENERAL, SIR 
ROWLAND HILL, K. B. 

Hill ! whose high daring with renewed success 
Hath cheered our tardy war, what time the cloud 
Of expectation, dark and comfortless. 
Hung on the mountains ; and yon factious crowd 
Blasphemed their country's valour, babbling loud ! 
Then was thine arm revealed, to whose young 

might. 
By Toulon's leaguered wall, the fiercest bowed 
Whom Egypt honoured, and the dubious fight 
Of sad Corunna's winter, and more bright 
Douro, and Talavera's gory bays ; 
Wise, modest, brave, in danger foremost found. — 
O still, young warrior, may thy toil-earned praise, 
With England's love, and England's honour 

crown^, 
Gild with delight thy Father's latter days ! 



IMITATION OF AN ODE BY KOOD- 
RUT, IN HINDOOSTANEE. 

Ambition's voice was in mine ear, she whispered 

yesterday, 
" How goodly is the land of Room,(9) how wide 

the Russian sway ! 
How blest to conquer either realm, and dwell 

through life to come. 
Lulled by the harp's melodious string, cheered by 

the northern drum !" 
But Wisdom heard ; " O youth," she said, " in 

passion's fetter tied, 
O come and see a sight with me shall cure thee of 

thy pride !" 
She led me to a lonely dell, a sad and shady 

ground. 
Where many an ancient sepulchre gleamed in the 

moonshine round, 



MISCELLANEOUS. 



43 



And " Here Secunder(lO) sleeps," she cried ; — 

" this is his rival's stone ; 
And here the mighty chief reclines who reared the 

Median throne.(ll) 
Inquire of these, doth aught of all their ancient 

pomp remain, 
Save late regret, and bitter tears for ever, and in 

vain? 
Return, return, and in thy heart engraven keep 

my lore ; 
The lesser wealth, the hghter load, — small blame 

betides the poor." 



Oasis. 



NOTES. 

Note 1, page 38, col. 2. 
Siwah. 
Sennaar. — Meroe. 



Note 2, page 38, col. 2. 
Shangalla. 
The black tribes whom Bruce considers as the 
aboriginal Nubians, are so called. For their gi- 
gantic stature, and their custom of ornamenting 
themselves and their houses with the spoils of the 
elephant, see the account he gives of the person 
and residence of one of their chiefs whom he visit- 
ed on his departure from Ras el Feel. 

Note 3, page 38, col. 2. 

Emeralds. 

The emerald, or whatever the ancients dignified 
by the name of smaragdus, is said to have been 
found in great quantities in the mountain now 
called Gebul Zumrud (the mount of emeralds.) 

Note 4, page 39, col. 1. 
Elim'3 well. 
It is interesting to observe with what pleasure 
and minuteness Moses, amid the Arabian wilder- 
ness, enumerates the " twelve wells of water," and 
the " threescore and ten palm-trees," of Elim, 

Note 5, page 39, col. 2. 

Ye viewless guardians of these sacred shades. 

These lines were spoken (as is the custom of the 

university on the installation of a new chancellor) 

by a young nobleman, whose diffidence induced 



him to content himself with the composition of an- 
other. Of this diffidence his friends have reason 
to complain, as it suppressed some elegant lines 
of his own on the same occasion. 

Note 6, page 40, col. 1. 
The brave, the virtuous, and the young. 
Captain Conway Shipley, third son to the dean 
of St. Asaph, perished in an attempt to cut out an 
enemy's vessel from the Tagus with the boats of 
his majesty's frigate La Nyniphe, April 22, 1808, 
in the 26th year of his age, and after nearly six- 
teen years of actual service ; distinguished by every 
quality both of heart and head which could adorn 
a man or an officer. Admiral Sir Charles Cotton, 
and the captains of his fleet, have since erected a 
monument to his memory in the neighbourhood 
of Fort St. Juhan. 

Note 7, page 40, col. 2. 

On Gunga's breast. 

These lines were written at a small village on 

the banks of the Ganges, which he was ascending 

in a pinnace, on his first visitation of his diocese, 

in August, 1824. 

Note 8, page 40, col. 2. 
The bird of hundred dyes. 
" The Mucharunga — many coloured. I learned 
at Dacca, that while we were at peace with the 
Burmans, many traders used to go over all the 
eastern provinces of Bengal, buying up these beau- 
tiful birds for the Golden Zennanah ; at Ummera- 
poora it was said that they were sometimes worth 
a gold mohur each." 

Note 9, page 42, col. 2. 
The land of Room. 
The oriental name of the Turkish Empire. 

Note 10, page 43, col. 1. 
Secunder. 
Alexander the Great. 

Note 11, page 43, col. 1. 
The mighty Chief who reared the Median throne. 
The founder of the Median throne was Ky- 
Kaoos, or Deiioces, 



THE END OF HEBER'S POEMS. 



THE 



^ 



A POEM, IN TEN BOOKS. 



BY ROBERT POLLOK, A. M. 



THE 



^ poem* 



BOOK 1. 

Eternal Spirit ! God of Truth! to whom 
All things seem as they are; Thou, who of old 
The prophet's eye unsealed, that nightly saw, 
While heavy sleep fell down on other men, 
In holy vision tranced, the future pass 
Before him, and to Judah's harp attuned 
Burdens which made the pagan mountains shake, 
And Zion's cedars bow, — inspire my song ; 
My eye unscale ; me what is substance teach, 
And shadow what, while I of things to come, 
As past, rehearsing, sing the Course of Time, 
The second birth, and final doom of man. 

The muse, that soft and sickly wooes the ear 
Of love, or chanting loud in windy rhyme 
Of fabled hero, raves through gaudy tale 
Not overfraught with sense, I ask not : such 
A strain befits not argument so high. 
Me thought, and phrase severely sifting out 
The whole idea, grant, uttering as 'tis 
The essential truth — time gone, the righteous 

saved, 
The wicked damned, and providence approved. 

Hold my right hand. Almighty! and me teach 
To strike the lyre, but seldom struck, to notes 
Harmonious with the morning stars, and pure 
As those by sainted bards and angels sung. 
Which wake the echoes of Eternity; 
That fools may hear and tremble, and the wise. 
Instructed, listen, of ages yet to come. 

Long was the day, so long expected, past 
Of the eternal doom, that gave to each 
Of all the human race his due reward. 
The sun, earth's son, and moon, and stars, had 

ceased 

To number seasons, days, and months, and years 
To mortal man. Hope was forgotten, and fear: 
And time, with all its chance, and change, and 

smiles. 
And frequent tears, and deeds of villany, 
Or righteousness, once talked of much, as things 
Of great renown, was now but ill remembered; 
In dim and shadowy vision of the past 



Seen far remote, as country, which has left 
The traveller's speedy step, retiring back 
From morn till even ; and long Eternity 
Had rolled his mighty years, and with his years 
Men had grownold. The saints, all home returned 
From pilgrimage, and war, and weeping, long 
Had rested in the bowers of peace, that skirt 
The stream of life; and long — alas, how long 
To them it seemed I — the wicked, who refused 
To be redeemed, had wandered in the dark 
Of hell's despair, and drunk the burning cup 
Their sins had filled with everlasting wo. 

Thus far the years had rolled, which none but 
God 
Doth number, when two sons, two youthful sons 
Of. Paradise, in conversation sweet, — 
For thus the heavenly muse instructs me, wooed 
At midnight hour with offering sincere 
Of all the heart, poured out in holy prayer, — 
High on the hills of immortality, 
Whence goodliest prospect looks beyond the walls 
Of heaven, walked, casting oft their eye far through 
The pure serene, observant if, returned 
From errand duly finished, any came, 
Or any, first in virtue now complete. 
From other worlds arrived, confirmed in good. 

Thus viewing, one they saw, on hasty wing 
Directing towards heaven his course; and now 
His flight ascending near the battlements 
And lofty hills on which they walked, approached. 
For round and round, in spacious circuit wide. 
Mountains of tallest stature circumscribe 
The plains of Paradise, whose tops, arrayed 
In uncreated radiance, seem so pure, 
That naught but angel's foot, or saint's, elect 
Of God, may venture there to walk. Here oft 
The sons of bliss take morn or evening pastime, 
Delighted to behold ten thousand worlds 
Around their suns revolving in the vast 
External space, or listen the harmonies 
That each to other in its motion sings. 
And hence, in middle heaven remote, is seen 
The mount of God in awful glory bright. 
Within, no orb create of moon, or star, 
Or sun, gives light; for God's own countenance, 



THE COURSE OF TIME. 



Beaming eternally, gives light to all. 

But farther than these sacied hills, his will 

Forbids it flow, too bright for eyes beyond. 

This is the last ascent of Virtue; here 

All trial ends, and hope ; here perfect joy, 

With perfect righteousness, which to these heights 

Alone can rise, begins, above all fall. 

And now, on wing of holy ardour strong, 
Hither ascends the stranger, borne upright, — 
For stranger he did seem, with curious eye 
Of nice inspection round surveying all, — 
And at the feet alights of those that stood 
His coming, who the hand of welcome gave, 
And the embrace sincere of holy love ; 
And thus, with comely greeting kind, began. 

Hail, brother ! hail, thou son of happiness. 
Thou son beloved of God, welcome to heaven, 
To bliss that never fades ! thy day is past 
Of trial, and of fear to fall. Well done, 
Thou good and faithful servant ; enter now 
Into the joy eternal of thy Lord. 
Come with us, and behold far higher sight 
Than e'er thy heart desired, or hope conceived. 
See, yonder is the glorious hill of God, 
'Bove angel's gaze in brightness rising high. 
Come, join our wing, and we will guide thy flight 
To mysteries of everlasting bliss. 
The tree, and fount of life, the eternal throne. 
And presence-chamber of the King of kings. 
But what concern hangs on thy countenance, 
Unwont within this place ? Perb.aps thou deemst 
Thyself unworthy to be brought before 
The always Ancient One^ So are we too 
Unworthy; but our God is all in all. 
And gives us boldness to approach his throne. 

Sons of the Highest ! citizens of heaven ! 
Began the new arrived, right have ye judged : 
Unworthy, most unworthy is your servant. 
To stand in presence of the King, or hold 
Most distant and most humble place in this 
Abode of excellent glory unrevealed. 
But God Almighty be for ever praised. 
Who, of his fulness, fills me with all grace 
And ornament, to make me in his sight 
Well pleasing, and accepted in his court. 
But, if your leisure waits, short narrative 
Will tell, why strange concern thus overhangs 
My face, ill seeming here ; and haply, too. 
Your elder knowledge can instruct my youth. 
Of what seems dark and doubtful, unexplained. 

Our leisure waits thee. Speak ; and what we 
can. 
Delighted most to give delight, we will ; 
Though much of mystery yet to us remains. 

Virtue, I need not tell, when proved, and full 
Matured, inclines us up to God and heaven. 
By law of sweet compulsion strong and sure ; 
As gravitation to the larger orb 
The less attracts, through matter's whole domain. 



Virtue in me was ripe. I speak not this 

In boast ; for what I am to God I owe, 

Entirely owe, and of myself am naught. 

Equipped and bent for heaven, I left yon worlds 

My native seat, which scarce your eye can reach, 

Rolling around her central sun, far out 

On utmost verge of light. But first, to see 

What lay beyond the visible creation, 

Strong curiosity my flight impelled. 

Long was my way, and strange. I passed the 

■ bounds 
Which God doth set to light, and hfe and love ; 
Where darkness meets with day, where order meets 
Disorder, dreadful, waste, and wild ; and down 
The dark, eternal, uncreated night 
Ventured alone. Long, long on rapid wing, 
I sailed through empty, nameless regions vast, 
Where utter Nothing dwells, unformed and void. 
There neither eye, nor ear, nor any sense 
Of being most acute, finds object ; there 
For aught external still you search in vain. 
Try touch, or sight, or smell ; try what you will^ 
You strangely find naught but yourself alone. 
But why should I in words attempt to tell 
What that is like, which is, and yet is not 7 
This passed, my path descending led me still 
O'er unclaimed continents of desert gloom 
Immense, where gravitation sliifting turns 
The other way; and to some dread, unknown, 
Infernal centre downward weighs : and now, — 
Far travelled from the edge of darkness, far 
As from that glorious mount of God to light's 
Remotest limb, — dire sights I saw, dire sounds 
I heard ; and suddenly before my eye 
A wall of fiery adamant sprung up. 
Wall mountainous, tremendous, flaming high 
Above all flight of hope. I paused, and looked; 
And saw, where'er I looked upon that mound, 
Sad figures traced in fire, not motionless, 
But imitating life. One I remarked 
Attentively; but how shall I describe 
What naught resembles else my eye hath seen? 
Of worm or serpent kind it something looked, 
But monstrous, with a thousand snaky heads, 
Eyed each with double orbs of glaring wrath ; 
And with as many tails, that twisted out 
In horrid revolution, tipped with stings ; 
And all its mouths, that wide and darkly gaped, 
And breathed most poisonous breath, had each a 

sting. 
Forked, and long, and venomous, and sharp ; 
And, in its writhings infinite, it grasped 
Malignantly what seemed a heart, swollen, black, 
And quivering with torture most intense ; 
And still the heart, with anguish throbbing high, 
Made effort to escape, but could not ; for, 
Howe'er it turned, and oft it vainly turned. 
These complicated foldings held it fast. 
And still the monstrous beast with sting of head 



BOOK I. 



Or tail transpierced it, bleeding evermore. 
What this could image, much I searched to know; 
And while I stood, and gazed, and wondered long, 
A voice, from whence I knew not, for no one 
I saw, distinctly whispered in my ear 
These words : This is the worm that never dies. 

Fast by the side of this unsightly thing 
Another was portrayed, more hideous still : 
Who sees it once shall wish to see't no more. 
For ever undescribed let it remain ! 
Only this much I may or can unfold. 
Far out it thrust a dart that might have made 
The knees of terror quake, and on it hung. 
Within the triple barbs, a being pierced 
Through soul and body both. Of heavenly make 
Original the being seemed, but fallen. 
And worn and wasted with enormous wo. 
And still around the everlasting lance, 
It writhed, convulsed, and uttered mimic groans; 
And tried, and wished, and ever tried and wished 
To die; but could not die. Oh, horrid sight! 
I trembling gazed, and listened, and heard this 

voice 
Approach my ear : This is Eternal Death. 

Nor these alone. Upon that burning wall 
In horrible emblazonry, were limned 
All shapes, all forms, all modes of wretchedness, 
And agony, and grief, and desperate wo. 
And prominent in characters of fire. 
Where'er the eye could light, these words you 

read: 
" Who comes this way, behold, and fear to sin!'' 
Amazed 1 stood ; and thought such imagery 
Foretokened, within, a dangerous abode. 
But yet to see the worst a wish arose. 
For virtue, by the holy seal of God 
Accredited and stamped, immortal all, 
And all invulnerable, fears no hurt. 
As easy as my wish, as rapidly, 
I through the horrid rampart passed, unscathed 
And unopposed ; and, poised on steady wing, 
1 hovering gaz^d. Eternal justice ! sons 
Of God! tell me, if ye can tell, what then 
I saw, what then I heard. Wide was the place, 
And deep as wide, and ruinous as deep. 
Beneath, I saw a lake of burning fire. 
With tempest tost perpetually, and still 
The waves of fiery darkness 'gainst the rocks 
Of dark damnation broke, and music made 
Of melancholy sort ; and over head 
And all around, wind warred with wind, storm 

howled 
To storm, and lightning forked hghtning crossed. 
And thunder answered thunder, muttering sounds 
Of sullen wrath ; and far as sight could pierce. 
Or down descend in caves of hopeless depth. 
Through all that dungeon of unfading fire, 
I saw most miserable beings walk. 
Burning continually, yet uncousumed ; 



For ever wasting, yet enduring still ; 

Dying perpetually, yet never dead. 

Some wandered lonely in the desert flames, 

And some in fell encounter fiercely met. 

With curses loud, and blasphemies, that made 

The cheek of darkness pale ; and as they fought, 

And cursed, and gnashed their teeth, and wished 

to die. 
Their hollow eyes did utter streams of wo. 
And there were groans that ended not, and sighs 
That always sighed, and tears that ever wept, 
And ever fell, but not in Mercy's sight. 
And Sorrow, and Repentance, and Despair, 
Among them walked, and to their thirsty lips 
Presented frequent cups of burning gall. 
And as I listened, I heard these beings curse 
Almighty God, and curse the Lamb, and curse 
The earth, the resurrection morn, and seek, 
And ever vainly seek, for utter death. 
And to their everlasting anguish still. 
The thunders from above responding spoke 
These words, which, through the caverns of per- 
dition 

I Forlornly echoing, fell on every ear : 
" Ye knew your duty, but ye did it not." 
And back again recoiled a deeper groan. 

I A deeper groan ! Oh, what a groan was that ! 

I I waited not, but swift on speediest wing. 
With unaccustomed thoughts conversing, back 
Retraced my venturous path frojn dark to hght. 
Then up ascending, long ascending up, 
I hasted on ; though whiles the chiming spheres, 
By God's own finger touched to harmony ! 
Held me delaying, till I here arrived. 
Drawn upward by the eternal love of God, 
Of wonder full and strange astonishment, 
At what in yonder den of darkness dwells, • 
Which now your higher knowledge will unfold. 

They answering said. To ask and to bestow 
Knowledge, is much of heaven's delight; and 

now 
Most joyfully what thou rcquirest we would; 
For much of new and unaccountable 
Thou bringst. Something indeed we heard before, 
In passing conversation slightly touched, 
Of such a place ; yet, rather to be taught. 
Than teaching, answer, what thy marvel asks. 
We need ; for we ourselves, though here, are but 
Of yesterday, creation's younger sons. 
But there is one, an ancient bard of Earth, 
Who, by the stream of life, sitting in bliss. 
Has oft beheld the eternal years complete 
The mighty circle round the throne of God ; 
Great in all learning, in all wisdom great 
And great in song ; whose harp in lofty strain 
Tells frequently of what thy wonder craves. 
While, round him gathering, stand the youth of 

heaven. 
With truth and melody delighted both. 



THE COURSE OF TIME. 



To him this path directs, an easy path, 
And easy flight will bring us to his seat. 

So saying, they Unked hand in hand, spread out 
Their golden wings, by living breezes fanned, 
And over heaven's broad champaign sailed serene. 
O'er hill and valley, clothed with verdure green, 
That never fades ; and tree, and herb, and flower, 
That never fades ; and many a river, rich , 

With nectar, winding pleasantly, they passed ; 
And mansion of celestial mould, and work- 
Divine. And oft delicious music, sung 
By saint and angel bands that walked the vales, 
Or mountain tops, and harped upon their harps, 
Their ear inclined, and held by sweet constraint 
Their wing ; not long, for strong desire awaked 
Of knowledge that to holy use might turn, 
Still pressed them on to leave what rather seemed 
Pleasure, due only when all duty's done. 

And now beneath them lay the wished-for spot. 
The sacred bower of that renowned bard ; 
That ancient bard, ancient in days and song; 
But in immortal vigour young, and young 
In rosy health ; to pensive solitude 
Retiring oft, as was his wont on earth. 

Fit was the place, most fit, for holy musing. 
Upon a little mount, that gently rose, 
He sat, clothed in white robes ; and o'er his head 
A laurel tree of lustiest, eldest growth, 
Stately and tall, and shadowing far and wide, — 
Not fruitless, as on earth, but bloomed, and rich 
With frequent clusters, ripe to heavenly taste, — 
Spread its eternal boughs, and in its arms 
A myrtle of unfading leaf embraced — 
The rose and lily, fresh with fragrant dew, 
And every flower of fairest cheek, around 
Him, smiling flocked. Beneath his feet, fast by, 
And round his sacred hill, a streamlet walked, 
WarbUng the holy melodies of heaven ; 
The hallowed zephyrs brought him incense sweet, 
And out before him opened, in prospect long, 
The river of life, in many a winding maze 
Descending from the lofty throne of God, 
That with excessive glory closed the scene. 

Of Adam's race he was. and lonely sat, 
By chance that day, in meditation deep, 
Reflecting much of time, and earth, and man. 
And now to pensive, now to cheerful notes. 
He touched a harp of wondrous melody. 
A golden harp it was, a precious gift, 
Which, at the day of judgment, with the crown 
Of life, he had received from God's own hand, 
Reward due to his service done on earth. 

He sees their coming, and with greeting kind. 
And welcome, not of hollow forged smiles, 
And ceremonious compliment of phrase. 
But of the heart sincere, into his bower 
Invites. Like greeting they returned. Not bent 
In low obeisancy, from creature most 
Unfit to creature ; but with manly form 



Upright they entered in ; though high his rank, 
His wiidom high, and mighty his renown. 
And thus, deferring all apology. 
The two their new companion introduced. 

Ancient in knowledge ! bard of Adam's race ! 
We bring thee one, of us inquiring what 
We need to learn, and with him wish to learn. 
His asking will direct thy answer best. 

Most ancient bard ! began the new arrived. 
Few words will set my wonder forth, and guide 
Thy wisdom's light to what in me is dark. 

Equipped for heaven, I left my native place. 
But first beyond the realms of light I bent 
My course; and there, in utter darkness, far 
Remote, I beings saw forlorn in wo. 
Burning continually, yet unconsumed. 
And there were groans that ended not, and sigha 
That always sighed, and tears that ever wept 
And ever fell, but not in Mercy's sight. 
And still I heard these wretched beings curse 
Almighty God, and curse the Lamb, and curse 
The earth, the resurrection morn, and seek 
And ever vainly seek, for utter death. 
And from above the thunders answered still, 
" Ye knew your duty, but ye did it not." 
And every where throughout that horrid den, 
I saw a form of excellence, a form 
Of beauty without spot, that naught could see 
And not admire, admire and not adore. 
And from its own essential beams it gave 
Light to itself, that made the gloom more dark. 
And every eye in that infernal pit 
Beheld it still ; and from its face — how fair! 
O, how exceeding fair ! — for ever sought. 
But ever vainly sought, to turn away. 
That image, as I guess, was Virtue ; for 
Naught else hath God given countenance so fair 
But why in such a place it should abide 1 
What place it is 1 What beings there lament 1 
Whence came they 1 and for what their endless 

groan 1 
Why curse they God 1 why seek they utter deathi 
And chief, what means the resurrection morn 1 
My youth expects thy reverend age to tell 7 

TItou rightly deem'st, fair youth, began the bard. 
The form thou saw'st was Virtue, ever fair. 
Virtue, like God, whose excellent majesty, 
Whose glory virtue is, is omnipresent. 
No being, once created rational, 
Accountable, endowed with moral sense. 
With sapience of right and wrong endowed, 
And charged, however fallen, debased, destroyed ; 
However lost, forlorn, and miserable; 
In guilt's dark shrouding wrapped, however thick; 
However drunk, delirious, and mad, 
With sin's full cup ; and with whatever damned, 
Unnatural diligence it work and toil. 
Can banish Virtue from its sight, or once 
Forget that she is fair. Hides it in night. 



BOOK II. 



In central night ; takes it the lightning's wing, 
And flies for ever on, bej'ond the bounds 
Of all ; drinks it the maddest cup of sin ; 
Dives it beneath the ocean of despair ; 
It dives, it drinks, it flies, it hides in vain. 
For still the eternal beauty, image fair. 
Once stamped upon the soul, before the eye 
All lovely stands, nor will depart ; so God 
Ordains; and lovely to the worst she seems, 
And ever seems ; and as they look, and still 
Must ever look, upon her loveliness. 
Remembrance dire of what they were, of what 
They might have been, and bitter sense of what 
They are, polluted, ruined, hopeless, lost, 
With most repenting torment rend their hearts. 
So God ordains, their punishment severe, 
Eternally inflicted by themselves. 
'Tis this, this Virtue hovering evermore 
Before the vision of the damned, and in 
Upon their monstrous moral nakedness 
Casting unwelcome light, that makes their wo. 
That makes the essence of the endless flame. 
Where this is, there is hell, darker than aught. 
That he, the bard three-visioned, darkest saw. 
The place thou sawst was hell ; the groans thou 
heardst 
The wailings of the damned, of those who would 
Not be redeemed, and at tlie judgment day. 
Long past, for un repented sins were damned. 
The seven loud thunders which thou heardst, de- 
clare 
The eternal wrath of the Almighty God. 
But whence, or why they came to dwell in wo. 
Why they curse God, what means the glorious 

morn 
Of resurrection, these a longer tale 
Demand, and lead the mournful lyre far back 
Through memory of sin and mortal man. 
Yet haply not rewardless we shall trace 
The dark disastrous years of finished Time. 
Sorrows remembered sweeten present joy. 
Nor yet shall all be sad ; for God gave peace. 
Much peace, on earth, to all who feared his name. 

But first it needs to say, that other style 
And other language tlian thy ear is wont, 
Thou must expect to hear, the dialect 
Of man. For each in heaven a relish holds 
Of former speech, that points to whence he came. 
But whether I of person speak, or place, 
Event or action, moral or divine ; 
Or things unknown compare to things unknown ; 
Allude, imply, suggest, apostrophize; 
Or touch, when wandering through the past, on 

moods 
Of mind thou never feltst; the meaning still, 
With easy apprehension, thou shalt take. 
So perfect here is knowledge, and the strings 
Of sympathy so tuned, that every word 
That each to other speaks, though never heard 



Before, at once is fully understood. 
And every feeling uttered, fully felt. 

So shalt thou find, as from my various song, 
That backward rolls o'er many a tide of years, 
Directly or inferred, thy asking, thou, 
And wondering doubt, shalt learn to answer, while 
I sketch in brief the history of man. 



BOOK II. 

This said, he waked the golden harp, and thus. 
While on him inspiration breathed, began. 

As from yon everlasting hills that gird 
Heaven northward, I thy course espied, I judge 
Tliou from the arctic regions camel Perhaps 
Thou noticed on thy way a little orb. 
Attended by one moon, her lamp by night, 
With her fair sisterhood of planets seven. 
Revolving round their central sun ; she third 
In place, in magnitude tlie fourth. That orb, 
New made, new named, inhabited anew, — 
Though whiles we sons of Adam visit still, 
Our native place, not changed so far but we 
Can trace our ancient walks, the scenery 
Of childliood, youth, and prime, and hoary age 
But scenery most of suffering and wo, — 
That little orb, in days remote of old. 
When angels yet were young, was made for man, 
And titled Earth, her primal virgin name ; — 
Created first so lovely, so adorned 
With hill, and dale, and lawn, and winding vale, 
Woodland, and stream, and lake, and rolling seas. 
Green mead, and fruitful tree, and fertile grain. 
And herb and flower ; so lovely, so adorned 
With numerous beasts of every kind, with fowl 
Of every wing and every tuneful note, 
And with all fish that in the multitude 
Of waters swam ; so lovely, so adorned, 
So fit a dwelling place for man, that, as 
She rose, complete, at the creating word. 
The morning stars, the sons of God, aloud 
Shouted for joy; and God, beholding, saw 
The fair design, that from eternity 
His mind conceived, accomplished, and, well 

pleased. 
His six days finished work most good pronounced, 
And man declared the sovereign prince of all. 

All else was prone, irrational, and mute, 
And unaccountable, by instinct led. 
But man he made of angel form erect. 
To hold communion with the heavens above ; 
And on his soul impressed his image fair, 
His own similitude of holiness. 
Of virtue, truth, and love; with reason high 
To balance right and wrong, and conscience quick 
To choose or to reject ; with knowledge great, 
Prudence and wisdom, vigilance and strength, 



THE COURSE OP TIME. 



To guard all force or guile ; and, last of all, 

The highest gift of God's abundant grace, 

With perfect, free, unbiased will. Thus man 

Was made upright, immortal made, and crowned 

The king of all ; to eat, to drink, to do 

Freely and sovereignly his will entire. 

By one command alone restrained, to prove, 

As was most just, his filial love sincere, 

His loyalty, obedience due, and faith. 

And thus the prohibition ran, expressed. 

As God is wont, in terms of plainest truth. 

Of every tree that in tlie garden grows 
Thou mayest freely eat ; but of the tree 
That knowledge hath of good and ill, eat not, 
Nor touch ; for in the day thou eatest, thou 
ShaJt die. Go, and this one command obey, 
Adam, live and be happy, and, with thy Eve, 
Fit consort, multiply and fill the earth. 

Thus they, the representatives of men, 
Were placed in Eden, choicest spot of earth. 
With royal honour and with glory crowned, 
Adam, the Lord of all, majestic walked. 
With godlike countenance sublime, and form 
Of lofty towering strength ; and by his side 
Eve, fair as morning star, with modesty 
Arrayed, with virtue, grace, and perfect love : 
In holy marriage wed, and eloquent 
Of thought and comely words, to worship God 
And sing his praise, the Giver of all good : 
Glad, in each other glad, and glad in hope ; 
Rejoicing in tlieir future happy race. 

O lovely, happy, blest, immortal pair ! 
Pleased with the present, full of glorious hope. 
But short, alas, the song that sings their bliss ! 
Henceforth the history of man grows dark ! 
Shade after shade of deepening gloom descends ; 
And Innocence laments her robes defiled. 
Who farther sings, must change the pleasant lyre 
To heavy notes of wo. Why ! dost thou ask. 
Surprised'' The answer will surprise thee more. 
Man sinned; tempted, he ate the guarded tree; — 
Tempted of whom thou afterwards shalt hear ; — 
Audacious, unbelieving, proud, ungrateful, 
He ate the interdicted fruit, and fell ; 
And in his fall, his universal race ; 
For they in him by delegation were, 
In him to stand or fall, to live or die. 

Man most ingrate ! so full of grace, to sin, 
Here interposed the new arrived, so full 
Of bliss, to sin against the Gracious One! 
The holy, just, and good ! the Eternal Love ! 
Unseen, unheard, unthought of wickedness ! 
Why slumbered vengeance 1 No, it slumbered not. 
The ever just and righteous God would let 
His fury loose, and satisfy his threat. 

That had been just, replied the reverend bard. 
But done, fair youth, thou ne'er hadst met me here; 
I ne'er had seen yon glorious throne in peace. 

Thy powers are great, originally great, 



And purified even at the fount of light. 
Exert them now, call all their vigour out j 
Take roonij think vastly, meditate intensely, 
Reason profoundly; send conjecture forth. 
Let fancy fly, stoop down, ascend ; all length, 
All breadth explore, all moral, all divine ; 
Ask prudence, justice, mercy ask, and might; 
Weigh good with evil, balance right with wrong; 
With virtue vice compare, hatred with love ; 
God's holiness, God's justice, and God's truth, 
Deliberately and cautiously compare 
With sinful, wicked, vile, rebellious man; 
And see if thou canst punish sin, and let 
Mankind go free. Thoufailst; be not surprised. 
I bade thee search in vain. Eternal love, 
Harp, lift thy voice on liigh ! eternal love, 
Eternal, sovereign love, and sovereign grace, 
Wisdom, and power, and mercy infinite. 
The Father, Son, and Holy Spirit, God, 
Devised the wondrous plan, devised, achieved. 
And in achieving made the marvel more. 
Attend, ye heavens! ye heaven of heavens! attend, 
Attend and wonder, wonder evermore ! 
When man had fallen, rebelled, insulted God ; 
Was most polluted, yet most madly proud ; 
Indebted infinitely, yet most poor ; 
Captive to sin, yet willing to be bound: 
To God's incensed justice and hot wrath 
Exposed, due victim of eternal death 
And utter wo — Harp, lift thy voice on high I 
Ye everlasting hills ! ye angels ! bow, 
Bow, ye redeemed of men ! — God was made flesh, 
And dwelt with man on earth ! the Son of God, 
Only begotten, and well beloved, between 
Men and his Father's justice interposed ; 
Put human nature on ; His wrath sustained ; 
And in their name suftbred, obeyed, and died, 
Making his soul an offering for sin ; 
Just for unjust, and innocence for guilt, 
By doing, suffering, dying, unconstrained, 
Save by omnipotence of boundless grace. 
Complete atonement made to God appeased ; 
Made honourable his insulted law, 
Turning the wrath aside from pardoned man. 
Thus Truth and Mercy met, and Righteousness, 
Stooping from highest heaven, embraced fair Peace, 
That walked the earth in fellowship with Love. 

O love divine ! O mercy infinite ! 
The audience here in glowing rapture broke, 
O love, all height above, all depth below. 
Surpassing far all knowledge, all desire, 
All thought ! The Holy One for sinners dieS I 
The Lord of life for guilty rebels bleeds, 
Q,uenches eternal fire with blood divine ! 
Abundant mercy ] overflowing grace ! 
There, whence I came, I something heard of men 
Their name had reached us, and report did speak 
Of some abominable horrid thing. 
Of desperate offence they had committed. 



BOOK II. 



And something too of wondrous grace we heard. 

And oft of our celestial \isitants 

What man, what God had done, inquired; bat 

they, 
Forbid, our asking never met directly, 
Exhorting still to persevere upright, 
And we should hear in heaven, though greatly 

blest 
Ourselves, new wonders of God's wondrous love. 
This hinting, keener appetite to know 
Awaked ; and as we talked, and much admired 
What new we there should learn, we hasted each 
To nourish virtue to perfection up, 
That we might have our wondering resolved 
And leave of louder praise to greater deeds 
Of loving kindness due. Mysterious love ! 
God was made flesh, and dwelt with men on earth! 
Blood holy, blood divine for sinners shed ! 
My asking ends, but makes my wonder more. 
Saviour of men ! henceforth be thou my theme ; 
Redeeming love, my study aay and night. 
Mankind were lost, all lost, and all redeemed ! 

Thou errst again, but innocently errst. 
Not knowing sin's depravity, nor man's 
Sincere and persevering wickedness. 
All were redeemed ? Not all. or thou hadst heard 
No human voice in hell. Many refused, 
Although beseeched, refused to be redeemed. 
Redeemed from death to life, from wo to bliss ! 

Canst thou believe my song when thus I singl 
When man had fallen, was ruined, hopeless, lost — 
Ye choral harps ! ye angels that excel 
In strength ! and loudest, ye redeemed of men ! 
To God, to Him that sits upon the throne 
On high, and to the Lamb, sing honour, sing 
Dominion, glory, blessing sing, and praise ! — 
When man had fallen, was ruined, hopeless, lost, 
Messiah, Prince of Peace, Eternal King, 
Died, that the dead might hve, the lost be saved. 
Wonder, O heavens ! and be astonished, earth ! 
Thou ancient, thou forgotten earth ! ye worlds ad- 
mire! 
Admire and be confounded! and thou hell, 
Deepen thy eternal groan ! — men would not be 
Redeemed, —I speak of many, not of all, — 
Would not be saved for lost, have life for death ! 

Mysterious song ! the new arrived exclaimed, 
Mysterious mercy! most mysterious hate! 
To disobey was mad, this madder far, 
Incurable insanity of will ! 
What now but wrath could guilty men expect? 
What more could love, what more could mercy dol 

No more, resumed the bard, no more they could. 
Thou hast seen hell. The wicked there lament : 
And whyl for love and mercy twice despised. 
The husbandman, who sluggishly forgot 
In spring to plough and sow, could censure none, 
Though winter clamoured round his empty barns. 
But he who, having thus neglected, did 



Refuse, when autumn came, and famine threat- 
ened, 
To reap the golden field that charity 
Bestowed ; nay, more obdurate, proud, and blind, 
And stupid still, refused, though much beseeched, 
And long entreated, even with Mercy's tears, 
To eat what to his very lips was held, 
Cooked temptingly, — he certainly, at least, 
Deserved to die of hunger, unbemoaned. 
So did the wicked spurn the grace of God ; 
And so were punished with the second death. 
The first, no doubt, punition less severe 
Intended ; death, beUke, of all entire. 
But this incurred, by God discharged, and life 
Freely presented, and again despised. 
Despised, though bought with Mer'^y's proper 

blood, 
'Twas this dug hell, and kindled all its bounds 
With wrath and inextinguishable fire. 

Free was the offer, free to all, of life 
And of salvation ; but the proud of heart. 
Because 'twas free, would not accept ; and still 
To merit wished; and choosing, thus unshipped, 
Uncompassed, unprovisioned, and bestormed. 
To swim a sea of breadth immeasurable. 
They scorned the goodly bark, whose wings the 

breath 
Of God's eternal Spirit filled for heaven, 
That stopped to take them in, and so were lost. 

What wonders dost thou tell ? To merit, how ! 
Of creature meriting in sight of God, 
As right of service done, I never heard 
Till now. We never fell; in virtue stood 
Upright, and persevered in holiness ; 
But stood by grace, by grace we persevered. 
Ourselves, our deeds, our holiest, highest deeds 
Unworthy aught ; grace worthy endless praise. 
If we fly swift, obedient to his will. 
He gives us wings to fly ; if we resist 
Temptation, and ne'er fall, it is his shield 
Omnipotent that wards it off; if we. 
With love unquenchable, before him burn, 
'Tis he that lights and keeps alive the flame. 
Men surely lost their reason in their fall, 
And did not understand the ofl'er made. 

They might have understood, the bard replied; 
They had the Bible. Hast thou ever heard 
Of such a book? The author, God himself; 
The subject, God and man, salvation, life 
And death — eternal life, eternal death — 
Dread words ! whose meaning has no end, no 

bounds — 
Most wondrous book ! bright candle of the Lord ! 
Star of eternity ! the only star 
By which the bark of man could navigate 
The sea of Ufe, and gain the coast of bliss 
Securely I only star which rose on Time, 
And on its dark and troubled billows, still, 
As generation, drifting swiftly by, 



10 



THE COURSE OF TIME. 



Succeeded generation, threw a ray 

Of heaven's own light, and to the hills of God, 

The eternal hills, pointed the sinner's eye. 

By prophets, seers, and priests, and sacred bards, 

Evangelists, apostles, men inspired. 

And by the Holy Ghost anointed, set 

Apart and consecrated to declare 

To Earth the counsels of the Eternal One, 

This book, this holiest, this sublimest book, 

Was sent. Heaven's will. Heaven's code of laws 

entire, 
To man, this book contained ; defined the bounds 
Of vice and virtue, and of life and death ; 
And what was shadow, what was substance taught. 
Much it revealed ; important all ; the least 
Worth more than what else seemed of highest 

worth. 
But this of plainest, most essential truth : 
That God is one, eternal, holy, just. 
Omnipotent, omniscient, infinite ; 
Most wise, most good, most merciful and true ; 
In all perfection most unchangeable : 
That man, that every man of every clime 
And hue, of every age and every rank, 
Was bad, by nature and by practice bad - 
In understanding blind, in will perverse, 
In heart corrupt ; in every thought, and word. 
Imagination, passion, and desire. 
Most utterly depraved throughout, and ill. 
In sight of Heaven, though less in sight of man ; 
At enmity with God his maker born, 
Apd by his very life an heir of death : 
That man, that every man was, farther, most 
Unable to redeem himself, or pay 
One mite of his vast debt to God ; nay, more. 
Was most reluctant and averse to be 
Redeemed, and sin's most voluntary slave : 
That Jesus, Son of God, of Mary born 
In Bethlehem, and by Pilate crucified 
On Calvary, for man thus fallen and lost. 
Died ; and, by death, life and salvation bought, 
And perfect righteousness, for all who should 
In his great name believe : That He, the third 
In the eternal Essence, to the prayer 
Sincere should come, should come as soon as asked, 
Proceeding from the Father and the Son, 
To give faith and repentance, such as God 
Accepts ; to open the intellectual eyes, 
Blinded by sin ; to bend the stubborn will. 
Perversely to the side of wrong inclined. 
To God and his commandments, just and good ; 
The wild, rebellious passions to subdue. 
And bring them back to harmony with heaven ; 
To purify the conscience, and to lead 
The mind into all truth, and to adorn 
With every holy ornament of grace, 
And sanctify the whole renewed soul, 
Which henceforth might no more fall totally, 
But persevere, though erring oft, amidst 



The mists of Time, in piety to God, 
And sacred works of charity to men : 
That he who thus believed, and practised thus, 
Should have his sins forgiven, however vUe ; 
Should be sustained at mid-day, morn, and even 
By God's omnipotent, eternal grace : 
And in the evil hour of sore disease, 
Temptation, persecution, war, and death, — 
For temporal death, although unstinged, remain- 
ed,— 
Beneath the shadow of the Almighty's wings 
Should sit unhurt, and at the judgment-day, 
Should share the resurrection of the just, 
And reign with Christ in bliss for evermore : 
That all, however named, however great. 
Who would not thus believe, nor practise thus, 
But in their sins impenitent remained, 
Should in perpetual fear and terror live; 
Should die unpardoned, unredeemed, unsaved ; 
And, at the hour of doom, should be cast out 
To utter darkness in the night of hell, 
By mercy and by God abandoned there 
To reap the harvests of eternal wo. 

This did the book declare in obvious phrase. 
In most sincere and honest phrase, by God 
Himself selected and arranged, so clear. 
So plain, so perfectly distinct, that none, 
Who read with humble wish to understand. 
And asked the Spirit, given to all who asked, 
Could miss their meaning, blazed in heavenly light. 

This book, this holy book, on every line 
Marked with the seal of high divinity, 
On every leaf bedewed with drops of love 
Divine, and with the eternal heraldry 
And signature of God Almighty stamped 
From first to last, this ray of sacred light, 
This lamp, from ofiT the everlasting throne, 
Mercy took down, and in the night of Time 
Stood, casting on the dark her gracious bow ; 
And evermore beseeching men, with tears 
And earnest sighs,' to read, believe, and live. 
And many to her voice gaVe ear, and read, 
Believed, obeyed ; and now, as the Amen, 
True, Faithful Witness swore, with snowy robes 
And branchy palms, surround the fount of life, 
And drink the streams of immortality, 
For ever happy, and for ever young. 

Many believed ; but more the truth of God 
Turned to a lie; deceiving and deceived; 
Each with the accursed sorcery of sin. 
To his own wish and vile propensity 
Transforming still the meaning of the text. 

Hear, while I briefly tell what mortals proved, 
By effort vast of ingenuity. 
Most wondrous, though perverse and damnable, 
Proved from the Bible, which, as thou hast heard. 
So plainly spoke that all could understand. 
First, and not least in number, argued some, 
From out this book itself, it was a lie. 



BOOK II. 



11 



A fable framed by crafty men to cheat 

The simple herd, and make them bow the knee 

To kings and priests. These in their wisdom left 

The light revealed, and turned to fancies wild ; 

Maintaining loud, that ruined, helpless man, 

Needed no Saviour. Others proved that men 

Might live and die in sin, and yet be saved, 

For so it was decreed ; binding the will, 

By God left free, to unconditional, 

Unreasonable fate. Others believed 

That he who was most criminal, debased. 

Condemned, and dead, unaided might ascend 

The heights of virtue ; to a perfect law 

Giving a lame, half-way obedience, which 

By useless efibrt only served to show 

The impotence of him who vainly strove 

With finite arm to measure infinite ; 

Most useless effort, when to justify 

In sight of God it meant, as proof of faith 

Most acceptable and worthy of all praise. 

Another held, and from the Bible held, 

He was infallible, most fallen by such 

Pretence ; that none the Scriptures, open to all, 

And most to humble-hearted, ouglitto read, 

But priests; that all who ventured to disclaim 

His forged authority, incurred the wrath 

Of Heaven ; and he who, in the blood of such, 

Though father, mother, daughter, wife, or son, 

Imbrued his hands, did most religious work, 

Well pleasing to the heart of the Most High. 

Others in outward rite devotion placed. 

In meats, in drinks, in robe of certain shape. 

In bodily abasements, bended knees ; 

Days, numbers, places, vestments, words, and 

names ; 
Absurdly in their hearts imagining, ■ 
That God, hke men, was pleased with outward 

show. 
Another, stranger and more wicked still. 
With dark and dolorous labour, ill applied, 
With many a gripe of conscience, and with most 
Unhealthy and abortive reasoning, 
That brought his sanity to serious doubt, 
'Mong wise and honest men, maintained that He, 
First Wisdom, Great Messiah, Prince of Peace, 
The second of the uncreated Three, 
Was naught but man, of earthly origin : 
Thus making void the sacrifice divine. 
And leaving guilty men, God's holy law 
Still unatoned, to work them endless death. 

These are a part ; but to relate thee all 
The monstrous, unbaptized fantasies, 
Imaginations fearfully absurd. 
Hobgoblin rites, and moon-struck reveries, 
Distracted creeds, and visionary dreams, 
More bodiless and hideously misshapen 
Than ever fancy, at the noon of night. 
Playing at will, framed in the madman's brain. 
That from this book of simple truth were proved, 



Were proved, as foolish men were wont to prove, 
Would bring my word in doubt, and thy belief 
Stagger, though here I sit and sing, within 
The pale of truth, where falsehood never came. 

The rest, who lost the heavenly light revealed, 
Not wishing to retain God in their minds. 
In darkness wandered on. Yet could they not, 
Though moral night around them drew her pall 
Of blackness, rest in uttor unbelief 
The voice within, the voice of God, that naught 
Could bribe to sleep, though steeped in sorceries 
Of hell, and much abused by whisperings 
Of evil spirits in the dark, announced 
A day of judgment and a Judge, a day 
Of misery or bliss : and, being ill 
At ease, for gods they chose them stocks and stones, 
Reptiles, and weeds, and beasts, and creeping- 
things. 
And spirits accursed, ten thousand deities ! 
Imagined worse than he who craved their peace; 
And, bowing, worshipped these, as best beseemed, 
With midnight revelry obscene and loud. 
With dark, infernal, devilish ceremonies. 
And horrid sacrifice of human flesh, 
That made the fair heavens blush. So bad was 

sin; 
So lost, so ruined, so depraved was man, 
Created first in God's own image fair. 

Oh, cursed, cursed Sin ! traitor to God, 
And ruincr of man ! mother of Wo, 
And Death, and Hell! wretched, j'et seeking 

worse ; 
Polluted most, yet wallowing in the mire ; 
Most mad, yet drinking Frenzy's giddy cup; 
Depth ever deepening, darkness darkening still ; 
Folly for wisdom, guilt for innocence ; 
Anguish for rapture, and for hope despair ; 
Destroyed, destroying ; in tormenting, pained ; 
Unawed by wrath, by mercy unreclaimed ; 
Thing most unsightly, most forlorn, most sad, 
Thy time on earth is passed, thy war with God 
And holiness. But who, oh, who shall tell, 
Thy unrepentablc and ruinous thoughts ! 
Thy sighs, thy groans ! who reckon thy burning 

tears, 
And damned looks of everlasting grief. 
Where now, with those who took their part with 

thee. 
Thou sitt'st in hell, gnawed by the eternal Worm, 
To hurt no more, on all the holy hills ! 

That those, deserting once the lamp of truth, 
Should wander ever on, from worse to worse 
Erroneously, thy wonder needs not ask : 
But that enlightened, reasonable men, 
Knowing themselves accountable, to whom 
God spoke from heaven, and by his servants warn- 
ed. 
Both day and night, with earnest pleading voice, 
Of retribution equal to their works, 



12 



THE COURSE OF TIME. 



Should persevere in evil, and be lost, — 
This strangeness, this unpardonable guilt, 
Demands an answer, which my song unfolds, 
In part, directly; but, hereafter, more, 
To satisfy thy wonder thou shalt learn, 
Inferring much from what is yet to sing. 

Know, then, of men who sat in highest place, 
Exalted, and. for sin by others done _. 
Were chargeable, the king and priests were cliief 
Many were faithful, hdy, just, upright. 
Faithful to God and man, reigning renowned 
In righteousness, and, to the people, loud 
And fearless, speaking all the words of life. 
These, at the judgment-day, as thou shalt hear, 
Abundant harvest reaped. But many, too, 
Alas, how many ! famous now in hell. 
Were wicked, cruel, tyrannous, and vile ; 
Ambitious of themselves, abandoned, mad; 
And still from servants hasting to be gods, 
Such gods as now they serve in Erebus. 
I pass their lewd example by, that led 
So many wrong, for courtly fasliion lost. 
And prove them guilty of one crime alone. 
Of every wicked ruler, prince supreme, 
Or magistrate below, the one intent. 
Purpose, desire, and struggle, day and night, 
Was evermore to wrest the crown from off 
Messiah's head, and put it on his own ; 
And in His place give spiritual laws to men ; 
To bind religion, free by birth, by God 
And nature free, and made accountable 
To none but God, behind the wheels of state ; 
To make the holy altar, where the Prince 
Of life, incarnate, bled to ransom man, 
A footstool to the throne. P'or this they met, 
Assembled, counselled, meditated, planned ; 
Devised in open and in secret ; and for this 
Enacted creeds of wondrous texture, creeds 
The Bible never owned, unsanctioned too, 
And reprobate in heaven ; but by the power 
fe^That made, — exerted now in gentler form, 
Monopolizing rights and privileges, 
Equal to all, and waving now the sword 
Of persecution fierce, tempered in hell, — 
Forced on the conscience" sf inferior men : 
The conscience, that sole monarchy in man, 
Owing allegiance to no earthly prince ; 
Made by the edict of creation free ; 
Made sacred, made above all human laws; 
Holding of heaven alone ; of most divine 
And indefeasible authority; - "' 
An individual sovereignty, that none 
Created might, unpunished, bind or touch ; 
Unbound, save by the eternal laws of God, 
And unamenable to all below. 

Thus did the uncircumcised potentates 
Of earth debase rehgion in the sight 
Of those they ruled, who, looking up, beheld 
The fair celestial gift despised, enslaved ; 



And, mimicking the folly of the great. 
With prompt docility despised her too. 

The prince or magistrate, however named 
Or praised, who, knowing better, acted thus, 
Was wicked, and received, as he deserved, 
Damnation. But the unfaithful priest, what tongue 
Enough shall execrate'? His doctrine may 
Be passed, though mixed with most unhallowed 

leaven. 
That proved, to those who foolishly partook. 
Eternal bitterness. But this was still. 
His sin, beneath what cloak soever veiled, 
His ever growing and perpetual sin. 
First, last, and middle thought, whence every wish 
Whence every action rose, and ended both : 
To mount to place, and power of worldly sort ; 
To ape the gaudy pomp and equipage 
Of earthly state, and on his mitred brow 
To place a royal crown. For this he sold 
The sacred truth to him who most would give 
Of titles, benefices, honours, names; 
For this betrayed his Master ; and for this 
Made merchandize of the immortal souls 
Committed to his care. This was his sin. 

Of all who office held unfairly, none 
Could plead excuse ; he least and last of all. 
By solemn, awful ceren^ony, he 
Was set apart to speak the truth entire. 
By action and by \yord ; and round him stood 
The people, from his lips expecting knowledge. 
One day in seven, the Holy Sabbath termed, 
They stood; for he had sworn, in face of God 
And man, to deal sincerely with their souls ; 
To preach the gospel for the gospel's sake ; 
Had sworn to hate and put away all pride. 
All vanity, all love of earthly pomp ; 
To seek all mercy, meekness, truth, and grace j 
And being so endowed himself, and taught, 
In them like works'of holiness to move ; 
Dividing faithfully the word of life. 
And oft indeed the word of life he taught ; 
But practising as thou hast heard, who could 
Believe? Thus was Religion wounded sore 
At her own altars, and among her friends. 
The people went away, and, like the priest, 
FulfiUing what the prophet spoke before. 
For honour strove, and wealth, and place, as*if 
The preahher had rehearsed an idle tale. 
The enemies of God rejoiced, and loud 
The unbeliever laughed, boasting a life 
Of fairer character than his, who owned, 
For king and guide, the undefiled One. 

Most guilty, villanous, dishonest man ! 
Wolf in the clothing of the gentle lamb ! 
Dark traitor in Messiah's holy camp ! 
Leper in saintly garb ! assassin masked 
In Virtue's ro& ! vile hypocrite accursed. 
I strive in vaifi^to set h^p evil forth! 
The words thk should sufficiently accursa 



BOOK II. 



13 



And execrate such reprobate, had need 
Come glowing from the lips of eldest hell. 
Among the saddest in the den of wo, 
Thou sawst him saddest, 'mong the damned, most 
damned. 
But why should I with indign .tion burn, 
Not well beseeming here, and long forgot ? 
Or why one censure for another's sin "? 
Each had his conscience, each his reason, will, 
And understanding, for himself to search, 
To choose, reject, believe, consider, act. 
And God proclaimed from heaven, and by an 

oath 
Confirmed, that each should answer for himself: 
And as his own peculiar work should be. 
Done by his proper self, should live or die. 
But sin, deceitful and deceiving still, 
Had gained the heart, and reason led astray. 
A strange belief, that leaned its idiot back 
On folly's topmost twig, — belief that God, 
Most wise, had made a world, had creatures made, 
Beneath his care to govern and protect, — 
Devoured its thousands. Reason, not the true, 
Learned, deep, sober, comprehensive, sound; 
But bigoted, one-eyed, short-sighted Reason, 
Most zealous, and sometimes, no doubt, sincere, 
Devoured its thousands. Vanity to be 
Renowned for creed eccentrical, devoured 
Its thousands; but a lazy, corpulent. 
And over-credulous faith, that leaned on all 
It met, nor asked .if 'twas a reed or oak ; 
Stepped on, but never eaitiestly inquired 
Whether to heaven or hell the journey led. 
Devoured its tens of thousands, and its hands 
Made reddest in tlie precious blood of souls. 

In Time's pursuits men ran till out of breath. 
The astronomer soared up, and counted stars. 
And gazed, and gazed upon the heaven's bright 

face. 
Till he dropped down dim-eyed into the grave. 
The numerist, in calculations deep, 
Grew gray. The merchant at his desk expired. 
The statesman hunted for another place. 
Till death o'ertook him, and made him his prey. 
The miser spent his eldest energy 
In grasping for another mite. The scribe 
RutSbed pensively his old and withered brow, 
Devismg new impediments to hold 
In doubt, the suit that threatened to end too 

soon. 
The priest collected tithes, and pleaded rights 
Of decimation to the very last. 
In science, learning, all philosophy. 
Men laboured all their days, and laboured hard, 
And, dying, sighed how httle they had done. 
But in religion, they at once grewf wise. 
A creed in print, though never understood ; 
A theologic system on thg shelf, . ' 



Was spiritual lore enough, and served their turn; 
But served it ill. They sinned, and never knew. 
For what the Bible said of good and bad. 
Of holiness and sin, they never asked. 

Absurd, prodigiously absurd, to think 
That man's minute and feeble faculties. 
Even in the very childhood of his being. 
With mortal shadows dimmed and wrapped around, 
Could comprehend at once the mighty scheme, 
Where rolled the ocean of eternal love ; 
Where wisdom infinite its master-stroke 
Displayed ; and where onmipotencc, oppressed, 
Did travail in the greatness of its strength ; 
And everlasting justice lilted up 
The sword to smite the guiltless Son of God ; 
And mercy smihng bade the sinner go! 
Redemption is the science and the song 
Of all eternity. Archangels day 
And night into its glories look. The saints, 
The elders round the Throne, old in the years 
Of heaven, examine it perpetually ; 
And, every hour, get clearer, ampler views 
Of right and wrong ; see virtue's beauty more ; 
See vice more utterly depraved and vile ; 
And this, with a more perfect hatred, hate; 
That daily love with a more perfect love. 

But whether I for man's perdition blame 
Office administered amiss, pursuit 
Of pleasure false, perverted reason blind. 
Or indolence that ne'er inquired ; I blame 
Effect and consequence, the branch, the leaf. 
Who finds the fount and bitter root, the first 
And guiltiest cause whence sprung this endless 

wo. 
Must deep descend into the human heart. 
And find it there. Dread passion! making men 
On earth, and even in hell, if Mercy yet 
Would stoop .so low, unwilling to be saved. 
If saved by grace of God. Hear, then, in brief. 
What peopled hell, what holds its prisoners there. 
Pride, self-adoring pride, was primal cause >' 
Of all sin passed, all pain, all wo to come. 
Unconquerable pride! first, eldest sin. 
Great fountain-head of evil! highest source. 
Whence fiowed rebellion 'gainst the Omnipotent, 
Whence hate of man to man, and all else ill. 
Pride at the bottom of the human heart 
Lay, and gave root and nourishment to all 
That grew above. Great ancestor of vice ! 
Hate, unbelief, and blasphemy of God ; 
Envy and slander, malice and revenge ; 
And murder, and deceit, and every birth 
Of damned sort, was progeny of pride. 
It was the ever-moving, acting force. 
The constant aim, and the most thirsty wish 
Of every sinner unrenewed, to be 
A god ; in purple or in rags, to have 
Himself adored. Whatever shape or form 



14 



THE COURSE OF TIME. 



His actions took, whatever phrase he threw 

About his thoughts, or mantle o'er his life. 

To be the highest, was the inward 'cause 

Of all ; the purpose of the heart to be 

Set up, admired, obeyed. But who would bow 

The knee to one who served and was dependent 1 

Hence man's perpetual struggle, night and day, 

To prove he was his own proprietor. 

And independent of his God, that what 

He had might be esteemed his ov?n, and praised 

As such. He laboured still and tried to stand 

Alone, unpropped, to be obliged to none; 

And in the madness of his pride, he bade 

His God farewell, and turned away to be 

A god himself: resolving to rely, 

Whatever came, upon his own light hand. 

O desperate frenzy ! madness of the will ! 
And drunkenness of the heart ! that naught could 

quench 
But floods of wo, poured from the sea of wrath. 
Behind which mercy set. To thinlc to turn 
The back on hfe original, and live ! 
The creature to set up a rival tlirone 
In the Creator's realm ! to deify 
A worm! and in the sight of God be proud! 
To lift an arm of flesh against the shafts 
Of the Omnipotent, and, midst his wrath, 
To seek for happiness ! — insanity 
Most mad ! guilt most complete ! Seest thou those 

worlds 
That roll at various distance round the throne 
Of God, innumerous, and fill the calm 
Of heaven with sweetest harmony, when saints 
And angels sleep"] As one of these, from love 
Centripetal, withdrawing, and from light, 
And heat, and nourishment cut off, should rush 
Abandoned o'er the line that runs between 
Create and increate, from ruin driven 
To ruin still, through the abortive waste ; 
So pride from God drew ofi' the bad ; and so 
Forsaken of him, he lets them ever try 
Their single arm against the second death •, 
Amidst vindictive thunders lets them try 
The stoutness of their hearts, and lets them try 
To quench their thirst amidst the unfading fire ; 
And to reap joy where he has sown despair ; 
To walk alone, unguided, unbemoaned, 
Where Evil dwells, and Death, and moral Night; 
In utter emptiness to find enough ; 
In utter dark find light ; and find repose. 
Where God with tempest plagues for evermore. 
For so they wished it, so did pride desire. 

Such was the cause that turned so many off 
Rebelliously from God, and led them on 
From vain to vainer still, in endless chase. 
And such the cause that made so many cheeks 
Pale, and so many knees to shake, when men 
Rose from the grave ; as thou shalt hear anon. 



BOOK III. 

Beholdst thou yonder, on the crystal sea, 
Beneath the throne of God, an image fair, 
And in its hand a mirror large and bright? 
'Tis truth, immutable, eternal truth, 
In figure emblematical expressed. 
Before it Virtue stands, and smiling sees, 
Well pleased, in her reflected soul, no spot. 
The sons of heaven, archangel, seraph, saint. 
There daily read their own essential worth ; 
And, as they read, take place among the just; 
Or high, or low, each as his value seems. 
There each his certain interest learns, his true 
Capacity; and, going thence, pursues, 
Unerringly, through all the tracts of thought, 
As God ordains, best ends by wisest means. 

The Bible held this mirror's place on earth. 
But, few would read, or, reading, saw themselves. 
The chase was after shadovrs, phantoms strange. 
That in the twilight walked of Time, and mocked 
The eager hunt, escaping evermore. 
Yet with so many promises and looks 
Of gentle sort, that he whose arms returned 
Empty a thousand times, still stretched them out, 
And, grasping, brought them back again unfilled. 

In rapid outline thou hast heard of man. 
His death, his offered life, that life by most 
Despised, the Star of God, the Bible, scorned, 
That else to happiness and heaven had led. 
And saved my lyre from narrative of wo. 
Hear now more largely of the ways of Time 
The fond pursuits and vanities of men. 

" Love God, love Truth, love Virtue, and be 
happy; 
These were the words first uttered in the ear 
Of every being rational made, and made 
For thought, or word, or deed accountable. 
Most men the first forgot, the second none. 
Whatever path they took, by hill or vale. 
By night or day, the universal wish. 
The aim, and sole intent, was happiness. 
But, erring from the heaven-appointed path. 
Strange tracks indeed they took through barren 

wastes. 
And up the sandy mountain cHmbing toiled. 
Which pining lay beneath the curse of God, 
And nought produced. Yet did the traveller look 
And point his eye before him greedily. 
And if he saw some verdant spot, where grew 
The heavenly flower, where sprung the well of 

life, 
Where undisturbed felicity reposed; 
Though Wisdom s eye no vestige could discern. 
That Happiness had ever passed that way. 

Wisdom was right, for still the terms remained 
Unchanged, unchangeable, the terms on which 



BOOK III. 



15 



True peace was given to man, unchanged as God, 
Who, in his own essential nature, binds 
Eternally to virtue happiness. 
Nor lets them part through all his universe. 
Philosophy, as thou slialt hear, when she 
Shall have her praise, her praise and censure too. 
Did much, refining and exalting man; 
But could not nurse a single plant that bore 
True happiness. From age to age she toiled, 
Shed from her eyes the mist that dimmed them 

still, 
liOoked forth on man, explored the wild and tame, 
The savage and polite, the sea and land. 
And starry heavens ; and then retired far back 
To meditation's silent, shady seat; 
And there sat pale, and thoughtfully, and weighed 
With wary, most exact, and scrupulous care, 
Man's nature, passions, hopes, propensities, 
Relations, and pursuits, in reason's scale; 
And searched and weighed, and weighed and 

searched again. 
And many a fair and goodly volume wrote, 
That seemed well worded too, wherein were found 
Uncountable receipts, pretending each, 
If carefully attended to, to cure 
Mankind of folly, to root out the briers. 
And thorns, and weeds, that choked the growth of 

joy; 

And showing too, in plain and decent phrase, 
Which sounded much like Wisdom's, how to plant. 
To shelter, water, culture, prune, and rear 
The tree of happiness ; and oil their plans 
Were tried ; but still the fruit was green and sour. 

Of all the trees that in Earth's vineyard grew, 
And with their clusters tempted man to pull 
And eat, one tree, one tree alone, the true 
Celestial manna bore, which filled the soul. 
The tree of holiness, of heavenl}- seed, 
A native of the skies ; though stunted much 
And dwarfed, by Time's cold, damp, ungenial 

soil. 
And chilling winds, j'et yielding fruit so pure, 
So nourishing and sweet, as, on his way, 
Refreshed the pilgrim ; and begot desire 
Unquenchable to chmb the arduous path 
To where her sister plants, ia their own clime. 
Around the fount, and by the stream of life. 
Blooming beneath the Sun that never sets. 
Bear fruit of perfect relish fully ripe, 

To plant this tree, uprooted by the fall. 
To earth the Son of God descended, shed 
His precious blood ; and on it evermore, 
From ojfT his Uving wings, the Spirit shook 
The dews of heaven, to nurse and hasten its 

growth. 
Nor was this care, this infinite expense, 
Not needed to secure the holy plant. 
To root it out, and wither it from earth, 
Hell strove with all its strength, and blew with all 



Its blasts! and Sin, with cold, consumptive breath, 
Involved it still in clouds of mortal damp. 
Yet did it grow, thus kept, protected thus; 
And bear the only fruit of true delight; 
The only fruit worth plucking under heaven. 

But, few, alas! the holy plant could see, 
For heavy mists that Sin around it threw 
Perpetually; and few the sacrifice 
Would make, by which alone its clusters stooped. 
And came within the reach of mortal man. 
For this, of whom who would approach and eat, 
Was rigorously exacted to the full : 
To tread and bruise beneath the foot the world 
Entire; its prides, ambitions, hopes, desires; 
Its gold and all its broidered equipage ; 
To loose its loves and friendships from the heart, 
And cast them off; to shut the ear against 
Its praise, and all its flatteries abhor; 
And, having thus behind him thrown what seemed 
So good and fair, then must he lowly kneel, 
And with sincerity, in which the E)'e 
That slumbers not, nor sleeps, could see no lack, 
This prayer pray: " Lord, God! thy will be done. 
Thy holy will, howe'er it cross my own." 
Hard labour this for flesh and blood! too hard 
For most it seemed. So, turning, they the tree 
Derided as mere bramble, that could bear 
No fruit of special taste ; and so set out 
Upon ten thousand dilli?rent routes to seek 
What they had left behind, to seek what they 
Had lost. For still as something once possessed 
And lost, true happiness appeared. All thought 
They once were happy; and even while they 

smoked 
And punted in the cheise, believed themselves 
More miserable to-day than yesterday. 
To-morrow than today. When youth complained, 
The ancient sinner shook his hoary head. 
As if he meant to sa)', Stop till j-ou come 
My length, and then you may have cause to sigh. 
At twenty, cried the boy, who now had seen 
Some blemish in his joys, How happily 
Plays yonder child that busks the mimic babe, 
And gathers gentle flowers, and never sighs ! 
At forty, in the fervour of pursuit. 
Far on in disappointment's dreary vale. 
The grave and sage-like man looked back upon 
The striphng youth of plump unseared hope, 
Who galloped gay and briskly up behind, 
And, moaning, wished himself eighteen again. 
And he, of threescore years and ten, in whose 
Chilled eye, fatigued with gaping after hope. 
Earth's freshest verdure seemed but blasted leaves. 
Praised childhood, youth, and manhood; and de- 
nounced 
Old age alone as barren of all joy. 
Decisive proof that men had left behind 
The happiness they sought, and taken a most 
Erroneous path ; since every step they took 



16 



THE COURSE OP TIME. 



'H 



Was deeper mire. Yet did they onward run, 
Pursuing Hope that danced before them still, 
And beckoned them to proceed ; and with their 

hands, 
That shook and trembled piteously with age, 
Grasped at the lying Shade, even till the earth 
Beneath them broke, and wrapped them in the 

grave. 
Sometimes indeed, when wisdom in their ear 
Whispered, and with its disenchanting wand. 
Effectually touched the sorcery of their eyes. 
Directly pointing to the holy tree. 
Where grew the food they sought, they turned, 

surprised. 
That they had missed so long what now they found 
As one upon whose mind some new and rare 
Idea glances, and retires as quick, 
Ere memory has time to write it down ; 
Stung with the loss, into a thoughtful cast, 
He throws his face, and rubs his vexed brow ; 
Searches each nook and corner of his soul 
With frequent care ; reflects, and re-reflects. 
And tries to touch relations that may start 
The fugitive again ; and oft is foiled ; 
Till something like a seeming chance, or flight 
Of random fancy, when expected least, 
Calls back the wandered thought, long sought in 

vain; 
Then does uncommon joy fill all his mind; 
And still he wonders, as he holds it fast. 
What lay so near he could not sooner find : 
So did the man rejoice, when from his eye 
The film of folly fell, and what he, day 
And night, and far and near, iiad idly searched, 
Sprung up before him suddenly displayed ; 
So wondered why he missed the tree so long. 
But, few returned from folly's giddy chase, 
Few heard the voice of Wisdom, or obeyed. 
Keen was the search, and various, and wide, 
Without, within, along the flowery vale. 
And up the rugged cliff, and on the top 
Of mountains high, and on the ocean wave.— l— 
Keen was the search, and various, and wide, \ 
And ever and anon a shout was heard : 
" Ho ! here's the tree of life ! come, eat, and live !" 
And round the new discoverer quick they flocked 
In multitudes, and plucked, and with great haste. 
Devoured; and sometimes in the lips 'twas sweet. 
And promised well: but, in the belly gall. 
Yet after him that cried again, Ho ! here's 
The tree of life ! again they ran, and pulled. 
And chewed again, and found it bitter still. 
From disappointment on to disappointment, 
Year after year, age after age, pursued, 
The child, the youth, the hoary headed man. 
Alike pursued, and ne'er grew wise. For it 
Was folly's most peculiar attribute. 
And native act, to make experience void. 
But hastily, as pleasures tasted, turned 



To loathing and disgust, they needed not 
Even such experiment to prove them vain. 
In hope or in possession, Fear, ahke, 
Boding disaster, stood. Over the flower 
Of fairest sort, that bloomed beneath the sun, 
Protected most, and sheltered from the storm. 
The Spectre, like a dark and thunderous cloud, 
Hung dismally, and threatened, before the hand 
Of him that wished, could pull it, to descend, 
And o'er the desert drive its withered leaves; 
Or, being pulled, to blast it unenjoyed. 
While yet he gazed upon its loveliness. 
And just began to drink its fragrance up. 

Gold many hunted, sweat and bled for gold; 
Waked all the night, and laboured all the day. 
And what was this allurement dost thou ask"? 
A dust dug from the bowels of the earth. 
Which, being cast into the fire, came out 
A shining thing that fools admired, and called 
A god ; and in devout and humble plight 
Before it kneeled, the greater to the less ; 
And on its altar sacrificed ease, peace. 
Truth, faith, integrity : good conscience, friends. 
Love, charity, benevolence, and all 
The sweet and tender sympathies of life; 
And, to complete the horrid murderous rite, 
And signalize their folly, offered up 
Their souls and an eternity of bliss. 
To gain them — what1 — an hour of dreaming joy, 
A feverish hour that hasted to be done. 
And ended in the bitterness of wo. 

Most, for the luxuries it bought, the pomp, 
The praise, the glitter, fashion, and renown, 
This yellow phantom followed and adored. 
But there was one in folly farther gone, ' 
With eye awry, incurable, and wild. 
The laughing-stock of devils and of men, 
And by his guardian angel quite given up, — 
The miser, who with dust inanimate 
Held wedded intercourse. Ill guided wretch! 
Thou mightst have seen him at thn midnight hour, 
When good men slept, and in light winged dreams 
Ascended up to God,— in wasteful hall. 
With vigilance and fasting worn to skin 
And bone, and wrapped in most debasing rags, — 
Thou mightst have seen him bending o'er his 

heaps. 
And holding strange communion with his gold; 
And as his thievish fancy seemed to hear 
The night-man's foot approach, starting alarmed. 
And in his old, decrepit, withered hand. 
That palsy shook, grasping the yellow earth 
To make it sure. Of all God made upright, 
And in their nostrils breathed a living soul, 
Most fallen, most prone, most earthy, most de- 
based ; 
Of all that sold Eternity for Time, 
None bargained on so easy terms with Death. 
Illustrious fool! nay, most inhuman wretch! 



BOOK III. 



17 



He sat among his bags, and, with a look 
Which hell might be ashamed of, drove the poor 
Away unalmsed, and midst abundance died, 
Sorest of evils ! died of utter want. 

Before this Shadow, in the vales of earth, 
Fools saw another ghde, which seemed of more 
Intrinsic worth. Pleasure her name ; good name 
Though ill applied. A thousand forms she took 
A thousand garbs she wore; in every age 
And clime, changing, as in her votaries changed 
Desire ; but, inwardly, the same in all. 
Her most essential lineaments we trace; 
Her general features everywhere ahke. 

Of comely form she was, and fair efface; 
And underneath her eyelids sat a kind 
Of witching sorcery that nearer drew 
Whoever, with unguarded look, beheld; 
A dress of gaudy hue loosely attired 
Her loveliness; her air and manner frank, 
And seeming free of all disguise ; her song 
Enchanting; and her words, which sweetly dropped, 
As honey from the comb, most large of promise 
Still prophesying days of new delight. 
And rapturous nights of undecaying joy; 
And in her hand, where'er she went, she held 
A radiant cup that seemed of nectar full ; 
And by her side, danced fair, delusive Hope. 
The fool pursued, enamoured; and the wise 
Experienced man, who reasoned much and 

thought. 
Was sometimes seen laying his wisdom down, 
And vying with the stripling in the chase. 
Nor wonder thou, for she was really fair. 
Decked to the very taste of flesh and blood. 
And many thought her sound within, and gay 
And healthy at the heart : but thought amiss. 
For she was full of all disease : her bones 
Were rotten ; Consumption licked her blood, and 

drank 
Her marrow up ; her breath smelled mortally. 
And in her bowels plague and fever lurked ; 
And in her very heart, and reins, and life, 
Corruption's worm gnawed greedily unseen. 
Many her haunts. Thou mightst have seen 
her now 
With indolence, lolling on the mid-day couch, 
And whispering drowsy words; and now at dawn. 
Loudly and rough, joining the sylvan horn ; 
Or sauntering in the park, and to the tale 
Of slander giving ear ; or silting fierce. 
Rude, blasphemous, malicious, raving, mad, 
Where fortune to the fickle die was bound. 

But chief she loved the scene of deep debauch, 
Where revelry, and dance, and frantic song. 
Disturbed the sleep of honest men; and where 
The drunkard sat, she entered in, well pleased. 
With eye brunful of wanton mirthfulness. 
And urged him still to fill another cup. 
And at the shadowy twilight, in the dark 



And gloomy night, I looked, and saw her come 
Abroad, arrayed in harlot's soft attire; 
And walk without in every street, and lie 
In wait at every corner, full of guile : 
And as the unwary youth of simple heart, 
And void of understanding, passed, she caught 
And kissed him, and with hps of lying said, 
I have peace-ofl'erings with me ; I have paid 
My vows this day; and therefore came I forth 
To meet thee, and to seek thee diligently, 
To seek thy face, and I have found thee here. 
My bed is decked with robes of tapestry. 
With carved work and sheets of linen fine ; 
Perfumed with aloes, myrrh, and cinnamon. 
Sweet are stolen waters! pleasant is the bread 
In secret eaten! the goodman is from home. 
Come, let us take our fill of love till morn 
Awake; let us dchght ourselves with loves. 
With much fair speech, she caused the youth to 

yield ; 
And forcetl him with the flattering of her tongue. 
I looked, and saw him follow to her house, 
As goes the ox to slaughter; as the fool 
To the correction of the stocks ; or bird 
That hastes into the subtle fowler's snare, 
And knows not, simple thing, 'tis for its life. 
I saw him enter in, and heard the door 
Behind them shut; and in the dark, still night, 
When God's unsleeping eye alone can see, 
He went to her adulterous bed. At morn 
I looked, and saw him not among the youthf . 
I heard his father mourn, his mother weep, 
For none returned that went with her. The dead 
Were in her house, her guests in depths of hell. 
She wove the winding-sheet of souls, and laid 
Them in the urn of everlasting death. 

Such was the Shadow fools pursued on earth, 
Under the name of pleasure ; fair outside, 
Within corrupted, and corrupting still. 
Ruined and ruinous, her sure reward, 
Her total recompense, was still, as he. 
The bard, recorder of Earth's Seasons, sung, 
" Vexation, disappointment, and remorse." 
Yet at her door the young and old, and some 
Who held high character among the wise. 
Together stood, and strove among themselves, 
Who first should enter, and be ruined first. 

Strange competition of immortal souls! 
To sweat for death! to strive for misery! 
But think not Pleasure told her end was death. 
Even human folly then had paused at least. 
And given some signs of hesitation ; nor 
Arrived so hot, and out of breath, at wo. 
Though contradicted every day by facts 
That sophistry itself would stumble o'er, 
And to the very teeth a liar proved, 
Ten thousand times, as if unconscious still 
Of inward blame, she stood and waved her hand, 
And pointed to her bower, and said to all 



18 



THE COURSE OP TIME. 



Who passed, Take yoiader flowery path, my steps 
Attend; I lead the smoothest way to heaven; 
This world receive as surety for the next : 
And many simple men, most simple, though 
Renowned for learning much, and wary skill, 
Believed, and turned aside, and were undone. 

Another leaf of finished Time we turn. 
And read of fame, terrestrial fame, which died, 
And rose not at the resurrection morn ; 
Not that by virtue earned, the true renown, 
Begun on earth, and lasting in the skies, 
Worthy the lofty wish of serapliim, — 
The approbation of the Eye that sees 
The end from the beginning, sees from cause 
To most remote efiect. Of it we read 
In book of God's remembrance, in the book 
Of life, from Avhichthe quick and dead were judged; 
The book that lies upon the Throne, and tells 
Of glorious acts by saints and angels done ; 
The record of the holy, just, and good. 

Of all the phantoms fleeting in the mist 
Of Time, though meagre all, and ghostly thin, 
Most unsubstantial, unessential shade 
Was earthly Fame. She was a voice alone, 
And dwelt upon the noisy tongues of men. 
She never thought, but gabbled ever on, 
Applauding most what least deserved applause. 
The motive, the result, was naught to her. 
The deed alone, though dyed in human gore, 
And steeped in widow's tears, if it stood out 
To prominent display, she talked of much, 
And roared around it with a thousand tongues. 
As changed the wind her organ, so she changed 
Perpetually ; and whom she praised to-day, 
Vexing his ear with acclamations loud. 
To-morrow blamed, and hissed him out of sight. 

Such was her nature, and her practice such. 
But, O ! her voice was sweet to mortal ears. 
And touched so pleasantly the strings of pride 
And vanity, which in the heart of man 
Were ever strung harmonious to her note. 
That many thought, to live without her song 
Was rather death than life. To live unknown. 
Unnoticed, uiirenowned ! to die unpraised, 
Unepitaphed ! to go down to the pit. 
And moulder into dust among vile worms. 
And leave no whispering of a name on earth ! — 
Such thought was cold about the heart, and chilled 
The blood. Who could endure itl who could 

choose 
Without a struggle, to be swept away 
From all remembrance, and have part no more 
With living men 1 Philosophy failed here. 
And self-approving pride. Hence it became 
The aim of most, and main pursuit, to win 
A name, to leave some vestige as they passed. 
That following ages might discern, they once 
Had been on earth, and acted something there. 
Many the roads they took, the plans they tried. 



The man of science to the shade retired, 
And laid his head upon his hand, in mood 
Of awful thoughtfulness, and dived, and dived 
Again, deeper and deeper still, to sound 
The cause remote ; resolved, before he died, 
To make some grand discovery, by which 
He should be known to all posterity. 

And in the silent vigils of the night. 
When uninspired men reposed, the bard, 
Ghastly of countenance, and from his eye 
Oft streaming wild unearthly fire, sat up. 
And sent imagination forth, and searched 
The far and near, heaven, earth, and gloomy hell, 
For fiction new, for thought, unthought before ; 
And when some curious, rare idea peered 
Upon his mind, he dipped his hasty pen. 
And by the glimmering lamp, or moonlight beam 
That through his lattice peeped, wrote fondly 

down, 
What seemed in truth imperishable song. 
And sometimes too, the reverend divine, 
In meditation deep of holy things 
And vanities of Time, heard Fame's sweet voice 
Approach Ms ear ; and hung another flower, 
Of earthly sort, about the sacred truth ; 
And ventured whiles to mix the bitter text. 
With relish suited to the sinner's taste. 

And oft-times too, the simple hind, who seemed 
Ambitionless, arrayed in humble garb. 
While round him, spreading, fed his harmless flock, 
Sitting was seen, by some wild warbling brook, 
Carving his name upon his favourite staff; 
Or, in ill-favoured letters, tracing it 
Upon the aged thorn, or on the face 
Of some conspicuous, oft-frequented stone, 
With persevering, wondrous industry ; 
And hoping, as he toiled amain, and saw 
The characters take form, some other wight. 
Long after he was dead and in the grave. 
Should loiter there at noon, and read his name. 
In purple some, and some in rags, stood forth 
For reputation. Some displayed a Umb 
Wcll-fasliioned ; some, of lowlier mind, a cane 
Of curious workmanship and mai-vellous twist. 
In strength some sought it, and in beauty more. 
Loner, long, the fair one laboured at the glass. 
And, being tired, called in auxiliar skill. 
To have her sails, before she went abroad. 
Full spread and nicely set, to catch the gale 
Of praise ; and much she caught, and much de- 
served. 
When outward loveliness was index fair 
Of purity within : but oft, alas ! 
The bloom was on the skin alone ; and when 
She saw, sad sight! the roses on her cheek 
Wither, and heard the voice of Fame retire 
And die away, she heaved most piteous sighs. 
And wept most lamentable tears ; and whiles. 
In wild deUrium, made rash attempt, 



BOOK 111. 



19 



Unholy mimicry of Nature's work ! 

To re-rreate, with frail and mortal things, 

Her withered face. Attempt how fond and vain ! 

Her frame itself soon mouldered down to dust ; 

And, in the land of deep forgetfulness, 

Her beauty and her name were laid beside 

Eternal silence and the loathsome worm; 

Into whose darkness flattery ventured not ; 

Where none had ears to hear the voice of Fame. 

Many the roads they took, the plans tiiey tried, 
And awful oft the wickedness they wrought. 
To be observed, some scrambled up to thrones, 
And sat in vestures dripping wet with gore. 
The warrior dipped his sword in blood, and wrote 
His name on lands and cities desolate. 
The rich bought fields, and houses built, and raised 
The monumental piles up to the clouds, 
And called them by their names : and, strange to 

tell! 
Rather than be unknown, and pass away 
Obscurely to the grave, some, small of soul, 
That else had perished unobserved, acquired 
Considerable renown by oaths profane ; 
By jesting boldly with all sacred things ; 
And uttering fearlessly whate'er occurred ; 
Wild, blasphemous, perditionable thoughts, 
That Satan in them moved ; by wiser men 
Suppressed, and quickly banished from the mind. 

Many the roads they took, the plans they tried. 
But all in vain. Who grasped at earthly fame, 
Grasped wind ; nay worse, a serpent grasped, that 

through 
His hand slid smoothly, and was gone ; but left 
A sting behind which wrought him endless pain. 
For oft her voice was old Abaddon's lure. 
By which he charmed the foohsh soul to death. 

So happiness Vi'as sought in pleasure, gold, 
Renown, by many sought. But should I sing 
Of all the trifling race, my time, thy faith 
Would fail, of things erectly organized, 
And having rational, articulate voice. 
And claiming outward brotherhood with man, 
Of him that laboured sorely, in his sweat 
Smoking afar, then hurried to the wine, 
Deliberately resolving to be mad ; 
Of him who taught the ravenous bird to fly 
This way or that, thereby supremely blest ; 
Or rode in fury with the howling pack, 
AflTronting much the noble animal, 
He spurred into such company ; of him 
Who down into the bowels of the earth 
Descended deeply, to bring up the wreck 
Of some old earthen ware, which having stowed. 
With every proper care, he home returned 
O'er many a sea and many a league of land, 
Triumphantly to show the marvellous })rize ; 
And him that vexed his brain, and theories built 
Of gossamer upon the brittle winds, 
Perplexed exceedingly why shells were found 
6 



Upon the mountain tops, but wondering not 
Why shells were found at all, more wondrous still ! 
Of him who strange enjoyment took in tales 
Of fairy folk, and sleepless ghosts, and sounds 
Unearthly, whispering in the ear of night 
Disastrous things ; and him who still foretold 
Calamity which never came, and lived 
In terror all his days of comets rude. 
That should unmannerly and lawless drive 
Athwart the path of earth, and burn mankind ; 
As if the appointed hour of doom, by God 
Appointed, ere its time should come! as if 
Too small the number of substantial ills, 
And real fears, to vex the sons of men. 
These, had they not possessed immortal souls. 
And been accountable, might have been passed 
With laughter, and forgot ; but; as it was, 
And is, their folly asks a serious tear. 

Keen was the search, and various, and wide, 
For happiness. Take one example more, 
So strange, that common fools looked on amazed ; 
And wise and sober men together drew, 
And trembling stood ; and angels in the heavens 
Grew pale, and talked of vengeance as at hand j 
The sceptic's route, the unbeliever's, who. 
Despising reason, revelation, God, 
And kicking 'gainst the pricks of conscience, 

rushed 
Deliriously upon the bossy shield 
Of the Omnipotent ; and in his heart 
Purposed to deify the idol chance ; 
And laboured hard, — oh, labour worse than 

naught! — 
And toiled with dark and crooked reasoning, 
To make the fair and lovely earth, which dwelt 
In sight of Heaven, a cold and fatherless, 
Forsaken thing, that wandered on, forlorn, 
Undcstined, uncompassioned, unupheld ; 
A vapour eddying in the whirl of chance, 
And soon to vanish everlastingly. 
He travailed sorely, and made many a tack. 
His sails oft shifting, to arrive, — dread thought! — 
Arrive at utter nothingness ; and have 
Being no more, no feeling, memory. 
No Hngering consciousness that e'er he was. 
Guilt's midnight wish! last, most abhorred thought! 
Most desperate effort of extremest sin ! 
Others, pre-occupied, ne'er saw true Hope: 
He, seeing, aimed to stab her to the heart. 
And with infernal chymistry to wring 
The last sweet drop from sorrow's cup of gall; 
To quench the only ray that cheered the earth, 
And leave mankind in night which had no star. 
Others the streams of Pleasure troubled; he 
Toiled much to dry her very fountain head. 
Unpardonable man! sold under sin! 
He was the devil's pioneer, who cut 
The fences down of Virtue, sapped her walls, 
And opened a smooth and easy way to death. 



20 



THE COURSE OF TIME. 



Traitor to all existence, to all life ! 

Soul-suicide I deterinineJ foe of being ! 

Intended murderer of God, most High ! 

Strange road, most strange ! to seek for happiness ! 

Hell's mad-houses are full of such, too fierce, 

Too furiously insane, and desperate. 

To range unbound 'mong evil spirits damned. 

Fertile was earth in many things, not least 
In fools, who mercy both and judgment scorned 
Scorned love, experience scorned, and onward 

rushed 
To swift destmction, giving all reproof. 
And all instruction, to the winds ; and much 
Of both they had, and much despised of both. 

Wisdom took up her harp, and stood in place 
Of frequent concourse, stood in every gate, 
By every way, and walked in every street ; 
And, lifting up her voice, proclaimed: " Be wise. 
Ye fools ! be of an understanding heart ; 
Forsake the wicked, come not near his house. 
Pass by, make haste, depart and turn away. 
Me follow, me, whose ways are pleasantness, 
Whose paths are peace, whose end is perfect joy." 
The Seasons came and went, and went and came. 
To teach men gratitude ; and as they passed, 
Gave warning of the lapse of Time, that else 
Had stolen unheeded by. The gentle Flowers, 
Retired, and, stooping o'er the wilderness, 
Talked of humility, and peace, and love. 
The Dews came down unseen at evening-tide, 
And silently their bounties shed, to teach 
Mankind unostentatious charity. 
With arm in arm the forest rose on high, 
And lesson gave of brotherly regard. 
And, on the rugged mountain-brow exposed, 
Bearing the blast alone, the ancient oak 
Stood, lifting high his mighty arm, and still 
To courage in distress exhorted loud. 
The flocks, the herds, the birds, the streams, the 

breeze, 
Attuned the heart to melody and love. 
Mercy stood in the cloud, with eye "that wept 
Essential love; and, from her glorious bow, 
Bending to kiss the earth in token of peace. 
With her own lips, her gracious lips, which God 
Of sweetest accent made, she whispered still. 
She whispered to Revenge, Forgive, forgive. 
The Sun, rejoicing round the eai'th, announced 
Daily the wisdom, power, and love of God. 
The Moon awoke, and from her maiden face. 
Shedding her cloudy locks, looked meekly forth. 
And with her virgin Stars walked in the heavens, 
Walked nightly there, conversing as she walked. 
Of purity, and holiness, and God. 
In dreams and visions, sleep instructed much. 
Day uttered speech to day, and night to night 
Taught knowledge. Silence had a tongue ; the 

grave. 
The darkness, and the lonely waste, had each 



A tongue, that ever said, Man ! think of God ! 
Think of thyself! think of eternity! 
Fear God, the thunders said. Fear God, the waves. 
Fear God, the lightning of the storm replied. 
Fear God, deep loudly answered back to deep : 
And, in the temples of the Holy One, 
Messiah's messengers, the faithful few, 
Faithful 'mong many false, the Bible opened, 
And cried. Repent ! repent ye sons of men ! 
Believe, be saved ; and reasoned awfully 
Of temperance, righteousness, and judgment soon 
To come, of ever-during life and death : 
And chosen bards from age to age awoke 
The sacred lyre, and full on Folly's ear, 
Numbers of righteous indignation poured : 
And God, omnipotent, when mercy failed, 
Made bare his holy arm, and with the stroke 
Of vengeance smote ; the fountains of the deep 
Broke up, heaven's windows opened, and sent on 

men 
A flood of wrath, sent plague and famine forth ; 
With earthquake rocked the world beneatli, with 

storms 
Above laid cities waste, and turned fat lands 
To barrenness, and with the sword of war 
In fury marched, and gave them blood to drink. 
Angels remonstrated, Mercy beseeched, 
Heaven smiled and frowned, Hell groaned, Time 

fled, Death shook 
Hisdart, and threatened to make repentance vain, — 
Incredible assertion ! men rushed on 
Determmedly to ruin ; shut their ears, 
Their eyes, to all advice, to all reproof; 
O'er mercy and o'er judgment, downward rushed 
To misery; and, — most incredible 
Of all ! — to misery rushed along the way 
Of disappointment and remorse, where still 
At every step, adders, in pleasure's form. 
Stung mortally ; and Joys, — whose bloomy cheeks 
Seemed glowing high with immortality, 
Whose bosoms prophesied superfluous bliss, — 
While in the arms received, and locked in close 
And riotous embrace, turned pale, and cold, 
And died, and smelled of putrefaction rank; 
Turned, in the very moment of delight, 
A loathsome, heavy corpse, that with the clear 
And hollow eyes of death, stared horribly. 
All tribes, all generations of the earth, 
Thus wantonly to ruin drove alike. 
We heard indeed of gold and silver days, 
And of primeval innocence unstained : 
A pagan tale ! but by baptized bards, 
Philosophers, and statesmen, who were still 
Held wise and cunning men, talked of so much. 
That most believed it so, and asked not why. 

The pair, the family first made, were ill ; 
And for their great peculiar sin, incurred 
The Curse, and left it due to all their race ; 
And bold example gave of every crime, 



BOOK III. 



SI 



Hate, murder, unbelief, reproach, revenge. 

A time, 'tis true, there came, of which thou soon 

Shalt hear, the Sabbath Day, the Jubilee 

Of earth, when righteousness and peace prevailed. 

This time except, who writes the history 

Of men, and writes it true, must write them had; 

"Who reads, must read of violence and blood. 

The man, who could the story of one day 

Peruse, the wrongs, oppressions, cruelties, 

Deceits, and perjuries, and vanities, 

Rewarded worthlessness, rejected worth. 

Assassinations, robberies, thefts, and wars, 

Disastrous accidents, life tlirown away, 

Divinity insulted, Heaven despised, 

Rebgion scorned, — and not been sick at night, 

And sad, had gathered greater store of mirth. 

Than ever wise man in the world could find. 

One cause of folly, one especial cause, 
Was this : Few knew what wisdom was, though 

well 
Defined in God's own words, and printed large. 
On heaven and earth in characters of light. 
And sounded in the ear by every wind. 

Wisdom is humble, said the voice of God. 
'Tis proud, the world replied. Wisdom, said God, 
Forgives, forbears, and suffers, not for fear 
Of man, but God. Wisdom revenges, said 
The world, is quick and deadly of resentment. 
Thrusts at the very shadow of affront. 
And hastes, by death, to wipe its honour clean. 
Wisdom, said God, loves enemies, entreats. 
Solicits, begs for peace. Wisdom, repHed 
The world, hates enemies, will not ask peace, 
Conditions spurns, and triumphs in their fall. 
Wisdom mistrusts itself, and leans on Heaven, 
Said God. It trusts and leans upon itself, 
The world replied. Wisdom retires, said God, 
And counts it bravery to bear reproach. 
And shame, and lowly poverty, upright; 
And weeps with all who have just cause to weep. 
Wisdom, replied the world, struts forth to gaze, 
Treads the broad stage of life with clamorous foot. 
Attracts all praises, counts it bravery 
Alone to wield the sword, and rush on death ; 
And never weeps, but for its own disgrace. 
Wisdom, said God, is highest, when it stoops 
Lowest before the Holy Throne ; throws down 
Its crown, abased ; forgets itself, admires. 
And breathes adoring praise. There Wisdom 

stoops, 
Indeed, the world replied, there stoops, because 
It must, but stoops with dignity; and thinks 
And meditates the while of inward worth. 

Thus did Almighty God, and thus the world, 
Wisdom define : and most the world believed, 
And boldly called the truth of God a lie. 
Hence, he that to the worldly wisdom shaped 
His character, became the favourite 
Of men, was honourabfe termed, a man ' 



Of spirit, noble, glorious, lofty soul! 

And as he crossed the earth in chase of dreams, 

Received prodigious shouts of warm applause. 

Hence, who to godly wisdom framed bis life, 

Was counted mean, and spiritless, and vile ; 

And as he walked obscurely in the path 

Which led to heaven, fools hissed with serpent 

tongue. 
And poured contempt upon his holy head. 
And poured contempt on all who praised his name. 

But false as this account of wisdom was, 
The world's I mean, it was its best, the creed 
Of sober, grave, and philosophic men, 
With much research and cogitation framed, 
Of men, who with the vulgar scofned to sit. 

The popular belief seemed rather worse. 
When heard replying to the voice of truth. 

The wise man, said the Bible, walks with God ; 
Surveys, far on, the endless line of life; 
Values his soul, thinks of eternity, 
Both worlds considers, and provides for both; 
With reason's eye his passions guards ; abstains 
From evil , lives on hope, on hope, the fruit 
Of faith; looks upward, purifies his soul. 
Expands his wings, and mounts into the sky ; 
Passes the sun, and gains his father's house, 
And drinks with angels from the fount of bliss. 

The multitude aloud replied, — replied 
By practice, for they were not bookish men. 
Nor apt to form their principles in words, — 
The wise man, first of all, eradicates. 
As much as possible, from out his mind, 
All thought of death, God, and eternity; 
Admires the world, and thinks of Time alone ; 
Avoids the Bible, all reproof avoids ; 
Rocks Conscience, if he can, a.sleep ; puts out 
The eye of Reason, prisons, tortures, binds. 
And makes her thus, by violence and force, 
Give wicked evidence against herself; 
Lets passion loose, the substance leaves, pursues 
The shadow vehemently, but ne'er o'ertakes; 
Puts by the cup of holiness and joy; 
And drinks, carouses deeply, in the bowl 
Of death; grovels in dust, pollutes, destroys, 
His soul ! is miserable to acquire 
More misery ; deceives to be deceived ; 
Strives, labours, to the last, to shun the truth; 
Strives, labours, to the last, to damn himself; 
Turns desperate, shudders, groans, blasphemes, 

and dies, 
And sinks — where could he else? — to endless wo; 
And drhiks the wine of God's eternal wrath. 

The learned thus, and thus the unlearned world, 
Wisdom defined. In sound they disagreed ; 
In substance, in effect, in end, the same; 
And equally to God and truth opposed. 
Opposed as darkness to the light of heaven. 
Yet were there some, that seemed weU-meaning 
men, 



23 



THE COURSE OP TIME. 



Who systems planned, expressed in supple words, 
Which praised the man as wisest, that in one 
United both ; pleased God, and pleased the world; 
And with the saint, and with the sinner, had, 
Changing his garb, unseen, a good report. 
And many thought their definition best ; 
And in their wisdom grew exceeding wise. 

Union abhorred ! dissimulation vain ! 
Could Holiness embrace the harlot Sin 7 
Could life wed death 1 Could God with Mammon 

dwell 7 
Oh, foolish men ! oh, men for ever lost ! 
In spite of mercy lost, in spite of wrath ! 
In spite of Disappointment and Remorse, 
Which made the way to ruin, ruinous ! 

Hear what they were : The progeny of Sin, 
Alike, and oft combined; but differing much 
In mode of giving pain. As felt the gross. 
Material part, when in the furnace cast, 
So felt the soul, the victim of Remorse. 
It was a fire which on the verge of God's 
Commandments burned, and on the vitals fed 
Of all who passed. Who passed, there met Re- 
morse ; 
A violent fever seized his soul ; the heavens 
Above, the earth beneath, seemed glowing brass, 
Heated seven times ; he heard dread voices speak, 
And mutter horrid prophecies of pain, 
Severer and severer yet to come ; 
And as he writhed and quivered, scorched within, 
The Fui-y round his ton'id temples flapped 
Her fiery wings, and breathed upon his lips 
And parched tongue the withered blasts of hell. 
It was the suffering begun, thou sawst 
In symbol of the Worm that never dies. 

The other, Disappointment, rather seemed 
Negation of delight. It was a thing 
Sluggish and torpid, tending towards death. 
Its breath was cold, and made the sportive blood. 
Stagnant, and duU, and heavy, round the wheels 
Of life. The roots of that whereon it blew, 
Decayed, and with the genial soil no more 
Held sympathy ; the leaves, the branches drooped. 
And mouldered slowly down to formless dust ; 
Not tossed and driven by violence of winds. 
But withering where they sprung, and rotting 

there 
Long disappointed, disappointed still, 
The hopeless man, hopeless in his main wish, 
As if returning back to nothing, felt ; 
In strange vacuity of being hung. 
And rolled and rolled his eye on emptiness. 
That seemed to grow more empty every hour. 

One of this mood I do remember well. 
We name him not, — what now are earthly 

names'?-^ 
In humble dwelling born, retired, remote; 
In rural quietude, 'mong hills, and streams, 
And melancholy deserts, v/here the Sun 



Saw, as he passed, a shepherd only, here 
And there, watching his little flock, or heard 
The ploughman talkuig to his .steers; his hopes. 
His morning hopes, awoke before him, smilijig, 
Among the dews and holy mountain airs; 
And fancy coloured them with every hue 
Of heavenly loveliness. But soon his dreams 
Of childhood fled away, those rainbow dreams, 
So innocent and fair, that withered Age, 
Even at the grave, cleared up his dusty eye, 
And, passing all between, looked fondly back 
To see them once again, ere he departed : 
These fled away, and anxious thought, that wished 
To go, yet whither knew not well to go, 
Possessed his soul, and held it still awhile. 
He listened, and heard from far the voice of fame, 
Heard and was charmed ; and deep and sudden 

vow 
Of resolution, made to be renowned; 
And deeper vowed again to keep his vow. 
His parents saw, his parents, whom God made 
Of kindest heart, saw, and indulged his hope. 
The ancient page he turned, read much, thought 

much. 
And with old bards of honourable name 
Measured his soul severely ; and looked up 
To fame, ambitious of no second place. 
Hope grew from inward faith, and promised fair. 
And out before him opened many a path 
Ascending, where the laurel highest waved 
Her branch of endless green. He stood admiring, 
But stood, admired, not long. The harp he seized, 
The harp he loved, loved better than lais life. 
The harp which uttered deepest notes, and held 
The ear of thought a captive to its song. 
He searched and meditated much, and whiles, 
With rapturous hand, in secret, touched the lyre, 
Aiming at glorious strains ; and searched again 
For theme deserving of immortal verse; 
Chose now, and now refused, unsatisfied; 
Pleased, then displeased, and hesitating still. 
Thus stood his mind, when round him came a 

cloud. 
Slowly and heavily it came, a cloud 
Of ills, v/e mention not. Enough to say, 
'Twas cold, and dead, impenetrable gloom. 
He saw its dark approach, and saw his hopes, 
One after one, put out, as nearer stOl 
It drew his soul ; but fainted not at first. 
Painted not soon. He knew the lot of man 
Was trouble, and prepared to bear the worst ; 
Endure whate'er should come, without a sigh 
Endure, and drink, even to the very dregs. 
The bitterest cup that Time could measure out; 
And, having done, look up, and ask for more. 

He called philosophy, and vpith his heart 
Reasoned. He called religion too, but called 
Reluctantly, and therefore was not heard. 
Ashamed to be o'ermatched by earthly woes, 



BOOK III. 



23 



He sought, and sought, with eye that dimmed apace 

To find some avenue to light, some place 

On which to rest a hope ; but sought in vain. 

Darker and darker still the darkness grew. 

At length he sunk, and Disappointment stood 

His only comforter, and mournfully 

Told all was passed. His interest in life, 

In being, ceased : and now he seemed to feel, 

And shuddered as he felt, his powers of mind 

Decaying in the spring-time of his day. 

The vigorous, weak became, the clear obscure. 

Memory gave up her charge. Decision reeled, 

And from her flight. Fancy returned, returned 

Because she found no nourishment abroad. 

The blue heavens withered, and the moon, and 

sun, 
And all the stars, and the green earth, and morn 
And evening, withered ; and the eyes, and smiles. 
And faces, of all men and women withered ; 
Withered to him; and all the universe, 
Like something which had been, appeared; but 

now 
Was dead and mouldering fast away. He tried 
No more to hope, wished to forget his vow, 
Wished to forget his harp ; then ceased to wish. 
That was his last. Enjoyment now was done. 
He had no hope, no wish, and scarce a fear. 
Of being sensible, and sensible 
Of loss, he as some atom seemed, which God 
Had made superfluously, and needed not 
To build creation with ; but back again 
To nothing threw, and left it in the void, 
With everlasting sense that once it was. 

Oh! who can tell what days, what nights, he 
spent. 
Of tideless, waveless. sailless, shoreless wo ! 
And who can tell how many, glorious once, 
To others and themselves of promise full. 
Conducted to this pass of human thought. 
This wilderness of intellectual death, 
Wasted and pined, and vanished from the earth. 
Leaving no vestige of memorial there ! 

It was not so with him. When thus he lay, 
Forlorn of heart, withered and desolate, 
As leaf of Autumn, which the wolfish winds, 
Selecting from its falling sisters, chase, 
Far from its native grove, to hfeless wastes, 
And leave it there alone, to be forgotten 
Eternally, God passed in mercy by, — 
His praise be ever new ! — and on him breathed, 
And bade him live, and put into his hands 
A holy harp, into his lips a song, 
That rolled its numbers down the tide of Time. 
Anibitious now but little, to be praised 
Of men alone ; ambitious most, to be 
Approved of God, the Judge of all; and have 
His name recorded in the book of life. 

Such things were Disappointment and Re- 
morse. 



And oft united both, as friends severe. 
To teach men wisdom ; but the fool, untaught, 
Was foolish still. His car he stopped, his eyes 
He shut, and blindly, deafly obstinate, 
Forced desperately his way from wo to wo. 

One place, one only place, there was on earth, 
Where no man e'er was fool, however mad. 
" Men may live fools, but fools they cannot die." 
Ah! 'twas a truth most true; and sung in Time, 
And to the sons of men, by one well known 
On earth for lofty verse and lofty sense. 
Much hast thou seen, fair youth, much heard; 

but thou 
Hast never seen a death-bed, never heard 
A dying groan. Men saw it often. 'Twas sad, 
To all most sorrowful and sad ; to guilt, 
'Twas anguish, terror, darkness, without bow. 
But, oh! it had a most convincing tongue, 
A potent oratory, that secured 
Most mute attention; and it spolce the truth 
So boldly, plainly, perfectly distinct, 
That none the meaning could mistake, or doubt; 
And had vyithal a disenchanting power, 
A most omnipotent and wondrous power. 
Which in a moment broke, for ever broke. 
And utterly dissolved, the charms, and spells. 
And cunnmg sorceries of earth and hell. 
And thus it spoke to him who ghastly lay. 
And struggled for another breath : Earth's cup 
Is poisoned; her renown, most infamous; 
Her gold, seem as it may, is really dust; 
Her titles, slanderous names; her praise, reproach; 
Her strength, an idiot's boast; her wisdom blind; 
Her gain, eternal loss; her hope, a dream; 
Her love, her friendship, enmity with God ; 
Her promises, a lie ; her smile, a harlot's ; 
Her beauty, paint, and rotten within ; her pleas- 
ures, 
Deadly assassins masked; her laughter grief; 
Her breasts, the sting of Death ; her total sum, 
Her all, most utter vanity; and all 
Her lovers mad, insane most grievously, 
And most insane because they know it not. 

Thus did the mighty reasoner, Death declare. 
And volumes more ; and in one word confirmed 
The Bible whole. Eternity is all. 
But few spectators, few believed, of those 
Who staid behind. The wisest, best of men, 
Believed not to the letter full; but turned. 
And on the world looked forth, as if they thought 
The well-trimmed hypocrite had something still 
Of inward worth. The dying man alone, 
Gave faithful audience, and the words of Death, 
To the last jot, believed, believed and felt ; 
But oft, alas ! believed and felt too late. 

And had Earth, then, no joys, no native sweets 
No happiness, that one, who spoke the truth. 
Might call her ownl She had ; true, native swecta, 
Indigenous delights, which up the tree 



24 



THE COURSE OF TIME. 



Of holiness, embracing as they grew, 
Ascended, and bore fruit of heavenly taste* 
In pleasant memory lield, and talked of oft, 
By yonder Saints, who walk the golden streets 
Of New Jerusalem, and compass round 
The Throne, with nearest vision blessed. Of these, 
Hereafter, thou shalt hear, delighted hear ; 
One page of beauty in the Ufe of man. 



B K IV. 

The world had much of strange and wonderful, 
In passion much, in action, reason, will. 
And much in providence, which still retired 
From human eye, and led Philosophy, 
That ill her ignorance liked to own, through dark 
And dangerous paths of speculation wild. 
Some striking features, as we pass, we mark, 
In order such as memory suggests. 

One passion prominent appears, the lust 
Of power, which oft-times took the fairer name 
Of liberty, and hung the popular flag 
Of freedom out. Many, indeed, its names. 
When on the throne it sat, and round the neck 
Of millions riveted its iron chain, 
And on the shoulders of the people laid 
Burdens unmerciful, it title took 
Of tyranny, oppression, despotism ; 
And every tongue was weary cursing it. 
When in the multitude it gathered strength, 
And, like an ocean bursting from its bounds, 
Long beat in vain, went forth resistlessly, 
It bore the stamp and designation, then, 
Of popular fury, anarchy, rebellion ; 
Aixd honest men bewailed all order void ; 
All laws annulled ; all property destroyed ; 
The venerable, murdered in the streets ; 
Tiie wise despised; streams, red with human 

blood ; 
Harvests beneath the frantic foot trod down ; 
Lands, desolate ; and famine at the door. 

These are a part ; but other names it had, 
Inn}imerous as the shapes and robes it wore. 
But under every name, in nature still 
Invariably the same, and always bad. 
We own, indeed, that oft against itself 
It fought, and sceptre both and people gave 
An equal aid ; as long exemplified 
In Albion's isle, Albion, queen of the seas ; 
And in the struggle, something like a kind 
Of civil liberty grew up, the best 
Of mere terrestrial root; but, sickly, too, 
And living only, strange to tell ! in strife 
Of factions equally contending; dead. 
That very moment dead, that one prevailed. 

Conflicting cmelly against itself. 
By its own hand it fell ; part slaying part. 



And men who noticed not the suicide, 

Stood wondering much, why earth from age to age, 

Was still enslaved ; and erring causes gave. 

This was earth's liberty, its nature this, 
However named, in whomsoever found, — 
And found it was in all of woman born, — 
Each man to make all subject to his will ; 
To make them do, undo, eat, drink, stand, move, 
Talk, think, and feel, exactly as he chose. 
Hence the eternal strife of brotherhoods, 
Of individuals, famiUes, commonwealths. 
The root from which it grew was pride ; bad root, 
And bad the fruit it bore. Then wonder not. 
That long the nations from it richly reaped 
Oppression, slavery, tyranny, and war; 
Confusion, desolation, trouble, shame. 
And, marvellous though it seem, this monster, 

when 
It took the name of slavery, as oft 
It did, had advocates to plead its cause; 
Beings that walked erect, and spoke like men; 
Of Christian parentage descended, too, 
And dipped in the baptismal font, as sign 
Of dedication to the prince who bowed 
To death, to set the sin-bound prisoner free. 

Unchristian thought ! on what pretence soe'er 
Of right, inherited, or else acquired; 
Of loss, or profit, or what plea you name, 
To buy and sell, to barter, whip, and hold 
In chains, a being of celestial make ; 
Of kindred form, of kindred faculties. 
Of kindred feehngs, passions, thoughts, desires; 
Born free, and heir of an immortal hope; 
Thought villanous, absurd, detestable ! 
Unworthy to be harboured in a fiend ! 
And only overreached in wickedness 
By that, birth, too, of earthly liberty, 
Which aimed to make a reasonable man 
By legislation think, and by the sword 
Believe. This was that liberty renowned, 
Those equal rights of Greece and Rome, where 

men, 
All, but a few, were bought, and sold, and scourged, 
And killed, as interest or caprice enjoined ; 
In after times talked of, written of, so much, 
That most, by sound and custom led away. 
Believed the essence answered to the name. 
Historians on this theme were long and warm. 
Statesmen, drunk with the fumes of vain debate, 
In lofty swelling phrase called it perfection. 
Philosophers its rise, advance, and fall. 
Traced carefully : and poets kindled still. 
As memory brought it up ; their lips were touched 
With fire, and uttered words that men adored.. 
Even he, true bard of Zion, holy man ! 
To whom the Bible taught this precious verse, 
" He is the freeman whom the truth makes free," 
By fashion, though by fashion little swayed, 
Scarce kept his harp from pagan freedom's praise. 



BOOK IV. 



25 



The captive prophet, whom Jehovah gave 
The future years, described it best, when he 
Beheld it rise in \ision of tlie night : 
A dreadful beast, and terrible, and strong 
Exceedingly, with nughty iron teeth ; 
And, lo, it brake in pieces, and devoured, 
And stamped the residue beneath its feet ! 

True liberty was Christian, sanctilied. 
Baptized, and found in Christian hearts alone ; 
First-born of Virtue, daughter of the skies, 
Nursling of truth divine, sister of all 
The graces, meekness, holiness, and love ; 
Giving to God, and man, and all belovs', 
That symptom showed of sensible existence, 
Their due, unasked ; fear to whom fear was due ; 
To all, respect, benevolence, and love: 
Companion of religion, where she came, 
There freedom came ; where dwelt, there freedom 

dwelt ; 
Ruled where she ruled, expired where she ex- 
pired. 

"He was the freeman whom the truth made 
free," 
Who, first of all, the bands of Satan broke ; 
Who broke the bands of sin ; and for his soul, 
In spite of fools, consulted seriously ; 
In spite of fashion, persevered in good ; 
In spite of wealth or poverty, upright ; 
Who did as reason, not as fancy, bade ; 
Who heard temptation sing, and yet turned not 
Aside ; saw Sin bedeck her flowery bed, 
And yet would not go up; felt at his heart 
The sword unsheathed, yet would not sell the truth; 
Who, having power, had not the will to hurt; 
Who blushed alike to be, or have a slave ; 
Who blushed at naught but sin, feared naught but 

God; 
Who, finally, in strong integrity 
Of soul, 'midst want, or riches, or disgrace, 
Uplifted, calmly sat, and heard the waves 
Of stormy folly breaking at his feet. 
Now shrill with praise, now hoarse with foul re- 
proach, 
And both despised sincerely; seeking this 
Alone, The approbation of his God, 
Which still witli con.science witnessed to his peace. 

This, this is freedom, such as angels use, 
And kindred to the liberty of God. 
First-born of Virtue, daughter of the skies! 
The man, the state, in whom she ruled was free ; 
All else were slaves of Satan, Sin, and Death. 

Already thou hast something heard of good 
And ill, of vice and virtue, perfect each ; 
Of those redeemed, or else abandoned quite ; 
And more shalt hear, when, at the judgment-day. 
The characters of mankind we review. 
Seems aught which thou hast lieard astonisliinf? 
A greater wonder now thy audience aaks ; 
Phenomena in all the universe, 



Of moral being most anomalous. 

Inexplicable most, and wonderful. 

I'll introduce thee to a single heart, 

A human heart. We enter not the worst, 

But one by God's renewing spirit touched, 

A Christian heart, awaked from sleep of sin. 

What seest thou here ? what markstl Observe it 

well. 
Will, passion, reason, hopes, fears, joy, distress, 
Peace, turbulence, simplicity, deceit. 
Good, ill, corruption, immortality; 
A temple of the Holy Ghost, and yet 
Oft lodging fiends; the dwelling-place of all 
The heavenly virtues, charity and truth, 
Humility, and holiness, and love ; 
And yet the common haunt of anger, pride, 
Hatred, revenge, and passions foul with lust; 
Allied to heaven, yet parleying oft with hell ; 
A soldier listed in Messiah's band, 
Yet giving quarter to Abaddon's troops ; 
With seraphs drinking from the well of life. 
And yet carousing in the cup of death ; 
An heir of heaven, and walking thitherward, 
Yet casting back a covetous eye on earth ; 
Emblem of strength, and weakness; loving now, 
And now abhorring sin ; indulging now, 
And now repenting sore; rejoicing now. 
With joy unspeakable, and full of glory; 
Now weeping bitterly, and clothed in dust; 
A man willing to do, and doing not ; 
Doing, and willing not; embracing what 
He hates, what most he loves abandoning ; 
Half saint, and sinner half; half life, half death ; 
Commixture strange of heaven, and earth, and hell. 

What seest thou here 1 what markstl A battle- 
field; 
Two banners spread, two dreadful fronts of war 
In shock of oppositicm fierce, engaged. 
God, angels, saw whole empires rise in arms, 
Saw kings exalted, heard them tumble down. 
And others raised, — and heeded not ; but here 
God, angels looked; God, angels, fought; and Hell, 
With all his legions, fought : here, error fought 
With truth, with darkness light, and life with death; 
And here, not kingdoms, reputation, worlds, 
Were won ; the strife was for eternity, 
The victory was never-ending bliss. 
The badge, a chaplet from the tree of life. 

While thus, within, contending armies strove. 
Without, the Christian had his troubles too. 
For, as by God's unalterable laws, 
And ceremonial of t!ie Heaven of Heavens, 
Virtue takes place of all, and worthiest deeds 
Sit highest at the feast of bliss ; on earth. 
The opposite was fashion's rule polite. 
Virtue the lowest place at table took. 
Or served, or was shut out; the Christian still 
Was mocked, derided, persecuted, slain ; 
And Slander, worse than mockery, or sword, 



THE COURSE OF TIME. 



Or death, stood nightly by her horrid I'orgc, 

And fabricated hos to stain hiss name, 

And wound his jwace; but still he had a source 

Of happiness, that men could neither give 

Nor take away. The avenues that led 

To immortality before him lay. 

He saw, with foith's far reaching eye, the fount 

Of life, his Father's house, his Saviour God, 

And borrowed thence to help his present want. 

Encountered thus with enemies, without, 
Within, like bark that meets opposing winds 
And floods, this way, now that, she steers athwart. 
Tossed by the wave, and driven by the storm ; 
But still the pilot, ancient at the helm. 
The harbour keeps in eye ; and after much 
Of danger passed, and many a prayer rude, 
He runs her safely in : so was the man 
Of God beset, so tos.sed by adverse winds ; 
And so his eye upon the land of life 
He kept. Virtue grew daily stronger, sin 
Decayed ; his enemies, repulsed, retired ; 
Till, at the stature of a perfect man 
In Christ arrived, and with the Spirit filled, 
He gained the harbour of eternal rest. 

But think not virtue, else than dwells in God 
Essentially, was perfect, without spot. 
Examine yonder suns. At distance seen. 
How bright they burn ! how gloriously they shine, 
Mantling the worlds around in beamy light ! 
But nearer viewed, we through tlieir lustre see 
Some dark behind ; so virtue was on earth, 
So is in heaven, and so shall always be. 
Though good it seem, immaculate, and fair 
Exceedingly, to saint or angel's gaze 
The uncreated Eye, that searches all, 
Sees it imperiect ; sees, but blames not ; sees. 
Well pleased, and best with those who deepest dive 
Into themselves, and know themselves the most ; 
Taught thence in humbler reverence to bow 
Before the Holy One ; and oftener view 
His excellence, that in them still may rise. 
And grow his likeness, growing evermore. 

Nor think that any, born of Adam's race, 
In his own proper virtue entered heaven. 
Once fallen from God and perfect holiness, 
No being, unassisted, e'er could rise, 
Or sanctify the sin-polluted soul. 
Oft was the trial made, but vainly made. 
So oft as men, in earth's best livery clad. 
However fair, approached the gates of heaven, 
And stood presented to the eye of God, 
Their impious pride so oft his soul abhorred. 
Vain hope ! in patch-work of terrestrial grain. 
To be received into the courts above ! 
As vain as towards j'^onder suns to soar. 
On wing of waxen plumage, melting soon. 

Look round, and see those numbers infinite, 
That stand before the Throne, and in their hands 
Palms waving high, as token of victory 



For battles won. These are the sons of men 
Redeemed, the ransomed of the Lamb of God 
All these, and millions more of kiadred blood, 
Who now are out on messages of love, 
All these, their virtue, beauty, excellence, 
And joy, are purchase of redeeming blood; 
Their glory, bounty of redeeming love. 

O Love divine! Harp, lift thy voice on high! 
Shout, angels! shout aloud, ye sons of men! 
And burn, my heart, with the eternal flame! 
My lyre, be eloquent with endless praise! 
O Love divine ! immeasurable Love ! 
Stooping from heaven to earth, from earth to hell; 
Without beginning, endless, boundless Love ! 
Above all asking, giving far, to those 
Who nought deserved, who nought deserved but 

death ! 
Saving the vilest ! saving me ! O Love 
Divine! O Saviour God ! O Lamb, once slain I 
At thought of thee, thy love, thy flowing blood, 
All thoughts decay; all things remembered fade; 
All hopes return ; all actions done by men 
Or angels, disappear, absorbed and lost; 
All fly, as from the great white Throne which he, 
The prophet, saw, in vision wrapped, the heavens 
And earth, and sun, and moon, and starry host. 
Confounded, fled, and found a place no more. 

One glance of wonder, as wc pass, deserve 
The books of Time. Productive was the world 
In many things, but most in books. Like swarms 
Of locusts, which God sent to vex a land 
Rebellious long, admonished long in vain. 
Their numbers they poured annually on man, 
From heads conceiving still. Perpetual birth! 
Thou wonderst how the world contained them all. 
Thy wonder stay. Like men, this was their doom: 
" That dust they were, and should to dust return." 
And oft their fathers, childless and bereaved, —^^ 
Wept o'er their graves, when they themselves were 

green. 
And on them fell, as fell on every age, 
As on tlieir authors fell, oblivious Night, 
Which o'er the past lay, darkling, heavy, still. 
Impenetrable, motionless, and sad. 
Having his dismal, leaden plumage stirred 
By no remembrancer, to show the men 
Who after came what was concealed beneath. ^'- 

The story-telling tribe, alone, outran 
All calculation far, and left behind. 
Lagging, the swiftest numbers. Dreadful, even 
To fancy, was their never-ceasing birth ; 
And room had lacked, had not their life been short. 
Excepting some, their definition take 
Thou thus, expressed in gentle phrase, which leaves 
Some truth behind: A Novel was a book 
Three-volumed, and once read, and oft crammed 

full 
Of poisonous error, blackening every page. 
And oftener still, of trifling, second-hand 



BOOK IV. 



27 



Remark, and old, diseased, putrid thought, 
And, miserable incident, at war 
With nature, with itself and truth at war ; 
Yet charming still the greedy reader on, 
Till done, he tried to recollect his thouglits. 
And nothing found, but dreaming emptiness. 
These, like ephemera, sprung, in a day, 
From lean and shallow-soiled brains of sand, 
And in a day expired ; yet, while they lived, 
Tremendous ofl-times was the popular roar ; 
And cries of — Live for ever ! struck the skies. 

One kind alone remained, seen through the gloom 
And sullen shadow of the past: as lights 
At intervals they shone, and brought the eye. 
That backward travelled, upward, till arrived 
At him, who, on the lulls of Midian, sang 
The patient man of Uz; and from the lyre 
Of angels, learned the early dawn of Time. 
Not light and momentary labour these, 
But discipline and self-denial long. 
And purpose stanch, and perseverance, asked, 
And energy that inspiration seemed. 
Composed of many thoughts, possessing each 
Innate and underived vitality ; 
Which, having fitly shaped, and well arranged 
In brotherly accord, they builded up; 
A stately superstructure, that, nor wind. 
Nor wave, nor shock of falling years, could move ; 
Majestic and indissolubly firm ; 
As ranks of veteran warriors in the field. 
Each by himself alone and singly seen, 
A tower of strength ; in massy phalanx knit, 
And in embattled squadron rushing on, 
A sea of valour, dread, invincible. 

Books of this sort, or sacred, or profane. 
Which virtue helped, were titled, not amiss, 
' The medicine of the mind :" who read them, read 
Wisdom, and was refreshed ; and on his path 
Of pilgrimage, with healthier step advanced. 

In mind, in matter, much was difficult 
To understand. But, what in deepest night 
Retired, inscrutable, mysteriouss, dark, — 
Was evil, God's decrees, and deeds decreed, 
Responsible: why God, the just and good, 
Omnipotent and wise, should sufier sin 
To rise: why man was free, accountable ; 
Yet God foreseeing, overruling all. 
Where'er the eye could turn, whatever tract 
Of moral thought it took, by reason's torch, 
Or Scripture's led, before it still this mount 
Sprung up, impervious, insurmountable, 
Above the human stature rising far ; 
Horizon of the mind, surrounding still 
The vision of the soul with clouds and gloom. 
Yet did they oft attempt to scale its sides, 
And gain its top. Philosophy, to climb. 
With all her vigour, toiled from age to age ; 
From age to age. Theology, with all 
Her vigour, toiled ; and vagrant Fancy toiled. 



Not weak and foolish only, but the wise. 

Patient, courageous, stout, sound headed man, 

Of proper discipline, of excellent wind, 

And strong of intellectual limb, toiled hard ; 

And oft above the reach of common eye 

Ascended far, and seemed well nigh the top; 

But only seemed ; for still another top 

Above them rose, till, giddy grown and mad. 

With gazing at these dangerous heights of God, 

They tumbled down, and in their raving said. 

They o'er the summit saw. And some believed, 

Believed a lie; for never man on earth. 

That mountain crossed, or saw its farther side. 

Around it lay the wreck of many a Sage, 

Divine, PhilG,sopher ; and many more 

Fell daily, undeterred by millions fallen ; 

Each wondering why he failed to comprehend j 

God, and with finite measure infinite. / 

To pass it, was no doubt desirable; 

And few of any intellectual size. 

That did not, some time in their day, attempt; 

But all in vain ; for as the distant hill. 

Which on the right or left, the traveller's eye 

Bounds, seems advancing as he walks, and oft 

He looks, and looks, and thinks to pass ; but still 

It forward moves, and mocks his baffled sight. 

Till night descends, and wraps the scene in gloom, 

So did this moral height the vision mock; 

So lifted up its dark and cloudy head, 

Before the eye, and met it evermore. 

And some, provoked, accused the righteous God. 

Accused of what? hear human boldness now! 

Hear guilt, hear folly, madness, all extreme ! 

Accused of what 1 the God of truth accused 

Of cruelty, injustice, wickedness. 

Abundant sin ! because a mortal man, 

A worm, at best, of small capacity. 

With scarce an atom of Jehovah's works 

Before him, and with scarce an hour to look 

Upon them, should presume to censure God, 

The infinite and uncreated God ! 

To sit, in judgment, on Plimself, his works. 

His providence! and try, accuse, condemn! 

If there is aught, thought or to think, absurd, 

Irrational and wicked, this is more. 

This most; the sin of devils, or of those 

To devils growing fiist. Wi.se men and good 

Accused themselves, not God ; and put their hands 

Upon their mouths, and in the dust adored. 

The Christian's iaith had many mysteries too; 
The uncreated holy Three in One, 
Divine incarnate, human in divine; 
The inward call; the Sanctifying Dew 
Coming unseen, unseen departing thence ; 
Anew creating all, and yet not heard ; 
Compelling, yet not felt. Mysterious these, 
Not that Jehovah to conceal them wished. 
Not that religion wished. The Christian faith, 
Unlike the timorous creeds of pagan priests, 



'28 



THE COURSE OP TIME. 



"Was frank, stood forth to view, invited all, 
To prove, examine, search, investigate, 
And gave herself a light to see her by. 
Mysterious these, because too large for eye 
Of man, too long for human arm to mete. 

Go to yon mount, which on the north side 
stands 
Of New Jerusalem, and lifts its head 
Serene in glory bright, except the hill, 
The Sacred Hill of God, whereon no foot 
Must tread, highest of all creation's walks, 
And overlooking all, in prospect vast. 
From out the ethereal blue. That cliff ascend. 
Gaze thence, around thee look ; nought now im- 
pedes 
Thy view ; 3'et still thy vision, purified 
And strong although it be, a boundary meets ; 
Or rather, thou wilt say, thy vision fails 
To gaze throughout illimitable space, 
And find the end of infinite : and so 
It was with all the mysteries of faith. 
God set them forth unveiled to the full gaze 
Of man, and asked him to investigate ; 
But reason's eye, however purified. 
And on whatever tall and goodly height 
Of observation placed, to comprehend 
Them fully, sought in vain: in vain seeks still : 
But wiser now and humbler, she concludes, 
From what she knows already of his love 
All gracious, that she cannot understand ; 
And gives him credit, reverence, praise for all. 

Another feature in the ways of God, 
That wondrous seemed, and made seme men com- 
plain, 
Was the unequal gift of w^orldly things. 
Great was the diflTerence, indeed, of men 
Externally, from beggar to the prince. 
The highest take and lowest, and conceive 
The scale between. A noble of the earth. 
One of its great, in splendid mansion dwelt ; 
Was robed in silk and gold ; and every day 
Fared sumptuously; was titled, honoured, served. 
Thousands his nod awaited, and his will 
Fbr law received. Whole provinces his march 
Attended, and his chariot drew, or on 
Their shoulders bore aloft the precious man. 
MiUions, abased, fell prostrate at his feet : 
And millions more thundered adoring praise. 
As far as eye could reach, he called the laud 
His own, and added yearly to his fields. 
Like tree that of the soil took healthy root, 
He grew on every side, and towered on high, 
And over half a nation, shadowing wide. 
He spread his ample bows. Air, earth, and sea. 
Nature entire, the brute, and rational. 
To please him ministered, and vied among 
Themselves, who most should his desires prevent. 
Watching the moving of his rising thoughts 
Attentively, and hasting to fulfil. 



His palace rose and kissed the gorgeous clouds. 
Streams bent their music to his will, trees sprung; 
Tlie native waste put on luxuriant robes; 
And plains of happy cottages cast out 
Their tenants, and became a hunting-field. 
Before him bowed the distant isles, with fruits 
And spices rare ; the South her treasures brought, 
The East and West sent ; and the frigid North 
Came with her offering of glossy furs. 
Musicians soothed his ear with airs select : 
Beauty held out her arms ; and every man 
Of cunning skill, and curious device. 
And endless multitudes of liveried wights, 
His pleasure waited with obsequious look. 
And wheii the wants of nature were supplied. 
And common-place extravagances filled, 
Beyond their asking ; and caprice itself, 
In all its zig-zag appetites, gorged full. 
The man new wants and new expenses planned 
Nor planned alone. Wise, learned, sober men, 
Of cogitation deep, took up his case. 
And planned for him new modes of folly wild ; 
Contrived new wishes, wants, and wondrous 

means 
Of spending with despatch ; yet, after all, 
tlis fields extended still, his riches grew, 
And what seemed splendour infinite, increased. 
So lavishly upon a single man 
Did Providence his bounties daily shower. 

Turn now thy eye, and look on Poverty; 
Look on the lovi^est of her ragged sons. 
We find him by the way, sitting in dust ; 
He has no bread to eat, no tongue to ask, 
No limbs to walk, no home, no house, no friend. 
Observe his goblin cheek, his wretched eye j 
See how his hand, if any hand he has, 
Involuntary opens, and trembles forth. 
As comes the traveller's foot ; and hear his groarij 
His long and lamentable groan, announce 
The want that gnaws within. Severely now 
The sun scorches and burns his old bald head; 
The frost now glues him to the chilly earth. 
On him hail, rain, and tempest, ruddy beat; 
And all the winds of heaven, in jocular mood. 
Sport with his withered rags, that, tossed about, 
Display his nakedness to passers by, 
And grievously burlesque the human form. 
Observe him yet more narrowly. His limbs, 
With palsy shaken, about him blasted lie ; 
And all his flesh is full of putrid sores 
And noisome wounds, his bones, of racking pains. 
Strange vesture this for an immortal soul ! 
Strange retinue to wait a lord of earth ! 
It seems as Nature, in some surly mood, 
After debate and musing long, had tried 
How vile and miserable thing her hand 
Could fabricate, then made this meagre man. 
A sight so full of perfect misery. 
That passengers their faces turned awaj, 



BOOK IV. 



29 



And hasted to be gone ; and delicate 
And tender women took another path. 

This great disparity of outward things 
Taught many lessons; but this taught in chief, 
Though learned by few: That God no value set, 
That man should none, on goods of worldly kind ! 
Gn transitory, frail, external things, 
Of migratory, ever-changing sort: 
And further taught, that in the soul alone, 
The thinking, reasonable, willing soul, 
God placed the total excellence of man ; 
And meant him evermore to seek it there. 

But stranger still the distribution seemed 
Of intellect, though fewer here complained; 
Each with his share, upon the whole content. 
One man there was, and many such you might 
Have met, who never had a dozen thoughts 
In all his life, and never changed their course; 
But told them o'er, each in its customed place, 
From morn till night, from youth to hoary age. 
Little above the ox that grazed the field, 
His reason rose ; so weak his memory, 
The name his mother called him by, he scarce 
Remembered ; and his judgment so untaught, 
That what at evening played along the swamp, 
Fantastic, clad in robe of fiery hue, 
He thought the devil in disguise, and fled 
With quivering heart and winged footsteps home. 
The word philosophy he never heard, 
Or science ; never heard of liberty, 
Necessity, or laws of gravitation ; 
And never had an unbelieving doubt. 
Beyond his native vale he never looked ; 
But thought the visual line, that girt him round, 
The world's extreme; and thought the silver 

Moon, 
That nightly o'er him led her virgin host. 
No broader than his father's shield. He lived, — 
Lived where his father lived, died where he died. 
Lived happy, and died happy, and was saved. 
Be not surprised. He loved and served his God, 

There was another, large of understanding, 
Of memory infinite, of judgment deep. 
Who knew all learning, and all science knew; 
And all phenomena, in heaven anil earth, 
Traced to their causes ; traced to the labyrinths 
Of thought, association, jiassion, will ; 
And all the subtle, nice affinities 
Of matter traced, its virtues, motions, laws; 
And most familiarly and deeply talked 
Of mental, moral, natural, divine. 
Leaving the earth at will, he soared to heaven, 
And read the glorious visions of the skies ; 
And to the music of the rolling spheres 
Intelligently listened ; and gazed far back 
Into the awful depths of Deity; 
Did all that mind assisted most could do ; 
And yet in misery lived, in misery died, 
Because he wanted holiness of heart. 



A deeper lesson this to mortals taught, 
And nearer cut the branches of their pride 
That not in mental, but in moral worth, 
God excellence placed ; and only to the good. 
To virtue, granted happiness, alone. 

Admire the goodness of Almighty God ! 
He riches gave, he intellectual strength. 
To few, and therefore none commands to be 
Or rich, or learned ; nor jiromiscs reward 
Of peace to these. On all, He moral worth 
Bestowed, and moral tribute asked from all. 
And who that could not pay "? who born so poor, 
Of intellect so mean, as not to know 
AVhat seemed the best ; and, knowing, might not do? 
As not to know what God and conscience bade. 
And what they bade not able to obeyl 
And he, who acted thus, fulfilled the law 
Eternal, and its promise reaped of peace ; 
Found peace this way alone : who sought it else, 
Sought mellow grapes beneath the icy Pole, 
Sought blooming roses on tlie cheek of death. 
Sought substance in a world of fleeting shades. 

Take one example, to our purpose quite, 
A man of rank, and of capacious soul, 
Who riches had and fame, beyond desire. 
An heir of flattery, to titles born, 
And reputation, and luxurious life: 
Yet, not content with ancestorial name, 
Or to be known because his fathers were, 
He on this height hereditary stood, 
And, gazing higher, purposed in his heart 
To take another step. Above him seemed. 
Alone, the mount of song, the lofty seat 
Of canonized bards ; and thitherward. 
By nature taught, and inward melody, 
In prime of youth, he bent his eagle eye. 
No cost was spared. What books he wished, he 

read; 
What sage to hear, he heard; what scenes to see, 
He saw. And first in rambling school-boy days 
Britannia's mountain-walks, and heath-girt lakes. 
And story telling glens, and founts, and brooks, 
And maids, as dew-drops pure and fair, his soul 
With grandeur hlled, and melody, and love. 
Then travel came, and took him where he wished. 
He cities saw, and courts, and princely pomp; 
And nnised alone on ancient mountain-brows ; 
And mused on battle-fields, where valour fought 
In other days; and nmsed on ruins gray 
With years ; and drank from old and fabulous 

wells. 
And plucked the vine that first-born prophets 

plucked, 

And mused on famous tombs, and on the wave 
Of ocean mused, and on the desert waste; 
The heavens and earth of every country saw. 
Where'er the old inspiring Genii dwelt, 
Aught that could rouse, expand, refine the soul, 
Thither he went, and meditated there. 



30 



THE COURSE OF TIME. 



He touched his harp, and nations heard, en- 
tranced. 
As some vast river of unfailing source, 
Rapid, exhaustless, deep, his numbers flowed, 
And opened new fountains in the human heart. 
Where Fancy halted, weary in her flight, 
In other men, his, fresh as morning, rose, 
And soared untrodden heights, and seemed at 

home, 
Where angels bashful looked. Others, though 

great, 
Beneath their argument seemed struggling whiles ; 
He from above descending stooped to touch 
The loftiest thought; and proudly stooped, as 

though 
It scarce deserved his verse. With Nature's self 
He seemed an old acquaintance, free to jest 
At will with all her glorious majesty. 
He laid his hand upon " the Ocean's mane," 
And played familiar with his hoary locks ; 
Stood on the Alps, stood on the Apennines, 
And with the thunder talked, as friend to friend ; 
And wove his garland of the lightning's wing, 
In sportive twist, the lightning's fiery wing, 
Which) as the footsteps of the dreadful God, 
Marching upon the storm in vengeance, seemed ; 
Then turned, and with the grasshopper, who sung 
His evening song beneath his feet, conversed. 
Suns, moons, and stars, and clouds, his sisters 

were; 
Hocks, mountains, meteors, seas, and winds, and 

storms, 
His b:'-'^thers, younger brothers, whom he scarce 
As equals deemed. All passions of all men, 
The wild and tame, the gentle and severe ; 
All thoughts, all maxims, sacred and profane ; 
All creeds, all seasons, Time, Eternity; 
AH that was hated, and all that was dear; 
All that was hoped, all that was feared, by man; 
He tossed about, as tempest, withered leaves. 
Then, smiling, looked upon the wreck he made. 
With terror now he froze the cowering blood, 
And now dissolved the heart in tenderness; 
Yet would not tremble, would not weep himself; 
But back into his soul retired, alone, 
Dark, sullen, proud, gazing contemptuously 
On hearts and passions prostrate at his feet. 
So Ocean from the plains his waves had late 
To desolation swept, retired in pride, 
Exulting in the glory of his might, 
And seemed to mock the ruin he had wrought. 

As some fierce comet of tremendous size, 
To which the stars did reverence, as it passed, 
So he through learning and through fancy took 
His flight sublime, and on the loftiest top 
Of Fame's dread mountain sat; not soiled and 

worn. 
As if he from the earth had laboured up ; 
But as some bird of heavenly plumage fair, 



He looked, which down from higher regions came, 
And perched it there, to see what lay beneath. 
The nations gazed, and wondered much, and 
praised. 
Critics before him fell in humble plight, 
Confounded fell, and made debasing signs 
To catch his eye, and stretched, and swelled them- 
selves 
To bursting nigh, to utter bulky words 
Of admiration vast : and many, too. 
Many that aimed to imitate his flight, 
With weaker wing, unearthly fluttering made, 
And gave abundant sport to after days. 
Great man ! the nations gazed, and wondered 
much, 
And praised ; and many called his evil good. 
Wits wrote in favour of his wickedness. 
And kings to do him honour took delight. 
Thus, full of titles, flattery, honour, fame. 
Beyond desire, beyond ambition, full, 
He died. He died of what *? Of wretchedness; — 
Drank every cup of joy, heard every trump 
Of fame, drank early, deeply drank, drank draughts 
That common millions might have quenched ; then 

died 
Of thirst, because there was no more to drink. 
His goddess. Nature, wooed, embraced, enjoyed, 
Fell from his arms, abhorred ; his passions died, 
Died, all but dreary, solitary Pride ; 
And all his sympathies in being died. 
As some ill-guided bark, well built and tall, 
Which angry tides cast out on desert shore, 
And then, retiring, left it there to rot 
And moulder in the winds and rains of heaven; 
So he, cut from the sympathies of life. 
And cast ashore from pleasure's boisterous surge, 
A wandering, weary, worn, and wretched thing, 
Scorched, and desolate, and blasted soul, 
A gloomy wilderness of dying thought, — 
Repined, and groaned, and withered from the 

earth. 
His groanings filled the land, his numbers filled ; 
And yet he seemed ashamed to groan: — Poor 

man! — 
Ashamed to ask, and yet he needed help. 

Proof this, beyond all lingering of doubt. 
That not with natural or mental wealth, 
Was God delighted, or his peace secured; 
That not in natural or mental wealth, 
Was human happiness or grandeur found. 
Attempt how monstrous, and how surely vain ! 
With things of earthly sort, with aught but God, 
With aught but moral excellence, truth, and love^ 
To satisfy and fill the immortal soul ! 
Attempt, vain inconceivably ! attempt, 
To satisfy the Ocean with a drop, 
To marry Immortality to Death, 
And with the unsubstantial Shade of Time, 
To fill the embrace of all Eteri^ty! 



BOOK V. 



31 



BOOK V. 

Pratse God, ye servants of the Lord ! praise God! 
Ye angels strong ! praise God, ye sons of men ! 
Praise him who made, and who redeemed your 

souls ; 
Who gave you hope, reflection, reason, will ; 
Minds that can pierce eternity remote, 
And live at once on future, present, past : 
Can speculate on systems yet to make. 
And back recoil on ancient days of Time, 
Of Time, soon past, soon lost among the shades 
Of buried years. Not so the actions done 
In Time, the deeds of reasonable men. 
As if engraven with pen of iron grain, 
And laid in flinty rock, they stand, unchanged, 
Written on the various pages of the past : 
If good, in rosy characters of love ; 
If bad, in letters of vindictive fire. 

God may forgive, but cannot blot them out. 
Systems begin and end. Eternity 
Rolls on his endless years, and men absolved 
By mercy from the consequence, forget 
The evil deed, and God imputes it not ; 
But neither systems ending nor begun, 
Eternity that rolls his endless years. 
Nor men absolved, and sanctified, and washed 
By mercy from the consequence, nor yet 
Forgetfulness, nor God imputing not, 
Can wash the guilty deed, once done, from out 
The faithful annals of the past ; who reads, 
And many read, there finds it, as it was, 
And is, and shall for ever be, — a dark, 
Unnatural, and loathly moral spot. 

The span of Time was short, indeed; and now 
Three-fourths were past, the last begun, and on 
Careering to its close, which soon we sing. 
But first our promise we redeem, to tell 
The joys of Time, her joys of native growth ; 
And briefly must, what longer tale deserves. 

Wake, dear remembrances! wake, childhood- 
days ! 
Loves, friendships, wake ! and wake, thou morn 

and even! 

Sun! with thy orient locks, night, moon, and stars! 
And thou, celestial bow ! and all ye woods. 
And hills, and vales, first trod in dawning hfe. 
And hours of holy musing, wake ! wake, earth ! 
And, smiling to remembrance, come, and bring, 
For thou canst bring, meet argument for song 
Of heavenly harp, meet hearing for the ear 
Of heavenly auditor, exalted high. 

God gave much peace on earth, much holy joy ; 
Oped fountains of percnnial^pring, whence flowed 
Abundant happiness to all who wished 
To drink ; not perfect bliss ; — that dwells with us, 
Beneath the eyelids of the Eternal One, 



And sits at his right hand alone; — but such 
As well deserved the name, abundant joy ; 
Pleasures, on which the memory of saints 
Of highest glory, still delights to dwell. 

It was, we own, subject of much debate, 
And worthy men stood on opposing sides, 
Whether the cup of mortal life had more 
Of sour or sweet. Vain question this, when asked 
In general terms, and worthy to be left 
Unsolved. If most was sour, the drinker, not 
The cup, we blame. Each in himself the meana 
Possessed to turn the bitter sweet, the sweet 
To bitter. Hence, from out the self-same fount, 
One nectar drank, another draughts of gall. 
Hence, from the self-same quarter of the sky, 
One saw ten thousand angels look and smile ; 
Another saw as many demons frown. 
One discord heard, where harmony inclined 
Another's ear. The sweet was in the taste, 
The beauty in the eye, and in the ear 
The melody ; and in the man, — for God 
Necessity of sinning laid on none,^- 
To form the taste, to purify the eye, 
And tunc the ear, that all he tasted, saw 
Or heard, might be harmonious, sweet, and fair. 
Who would, might groan; who would, might sing 
for joy. 

Natuxo lamented little. Undevoured 
By spurious appetites, she found enough. 
Where least was found ; with gleanings satisfied, 
Or crumbs, that from the hand of luxury fell ; 
Yet seldom these she ate, but ate the bread 
Of her own industry, made sweet by toil ; 
And walked in robes that her own hand had spun: 
And slept on down her early rising bought. 
Frugal and diligent in business, chaste 
And abstinent, she stored for helpless age. 
And, keeping in reserve her spring-day health, 
And dawning relishes of life, she drank 
Her evening cup with excellent appetite; 
And saw her eldest sun decline, as fair 
As rose her earliest morn, and pleased as well. 

Whether in crowds or solitudes, in streets 
Or shady groves, dwelt Happiness, it seems 
In vain to ask, her nature makes it vain. 
Though poets much, and hermits talked, and sung 
Of brooks, and crystal founts, and weeping dews. 
And myrtle bowers, and soUtary vales. 
And with the nymph made assignations there. 
And wooed her with the love-sick oaten reed ; 
And sages too, although less positive, 
Advised their sons to court her in the shade. 
Delirious babble all! Was happiness. 
Was self-approving, God-approving joy, 
In drops of dew, however pure"? in gales. 
However sweetl in wells, however clear? 
Or groves, however thick with verdant shade 1 

True, these were of themselves exceeding fair- 
How fair at morn and even ! worthy the walk 



32 



THE COURSE OF TIME. 



Of loftiest mind, and gave, when all within 

Was right, a feast of overflowing bliss ; 

But were the occasion, not the cause of joy. 

They waked the native fountains of the soul, 

Which slept before ; and stirred the holy tides 

Of feeling up, giving the heart to drink 

From its own treasures draughts. of perfect sweet. 

The Christian faith, whichbetterknewthe heart 
Of man, him thither sent for peace, and thus 
Declared : Who finds it, let him find it there ; 
Who finds it not, for ever let him seek 
In vain ; 'tis God's most holy, changeless will. 

True Happiness had no localities. 
No tones provincial, no peculiar garb. 
Where Duty went, she went, with Justice went. 
And went with Meekness, Charity, and Love. 
Where'er a tear was dried, a wounded heart 
Bound up, a bruised spirit with the dew 
Of sympathy anointed, or a pang 
Of honest suflfering soothed, or injury 
Repeated oft, as oft by love forgiven ; 
Where'er an evil passion was subdued, 
Or Virtue's feeble embers fanned ; where'er 
A sin was heartily abjured, and left ; 
Where'er a pious act was done, or breathed 
A pious prayer, or wished a pious wish ; 
There was a high and holy place, a spot 
Of sacred light, a most religious fane, 
Where Happiness, descending, sat and smiled. 

But these apart, in sacred memory lives 
The morn of life, first morn of endless days. 
Most joyful morn ! nor yet for nought the joy. 
A being of eternal date commenced, 
A young immortal then was born ! and who 
Shall tell what strange variety of bliss 
Burst on the infant soul, when first it looked 
Abroad on God's creation fair, and saw 
The glorious earth and glorious heaven, and face 
Of man sublime, and saw all new, and felt 
All new! when thought awoke, thought never more 
To sleep! when first it saw, heard, reasoned, willed. 
And triumphed in the warmth of conscious life ! 

Nor happy only, but the cause of joy, 
Which those who never tasted always mourned. 
What tongue! — no tongue shall tell what bliss 

o'erflowed 
The mother's tender heart, while round her hung 
The offspring of her love, and lisped her name, 
As living jewels dropped'unstained from heaven. 
That made her fairer far, and sweeter seem. 
Than every ornament of costliest hue I 
And who hath not been ravished, as she passed 
With all her playful band of little ones. 
Like Luna, with her daughters of the sky, 
Walking in matron majesty and grace"? 
All who had hearts here pleasure found ; and oft 
Have I, when tired with heavy task, — for tasks 
Were heavy in the world below, — relaxed 
My weary thoughts among tlieir guiltless sports, 



And led them by their httle hands a-field, i 

And watched them' run and crop the tempting ■ 
flower, — * 

Which oft, unasked, they brought me, and be- 
stowed 
With smiling face, that waited for a look 
Of praise, — and answered curious questions, put 
In much simpKcity, but ill to solve ; 
And heard tlieir observations strange and new. 
And settled whiles their little quarrels, soon 
Ending in peace, and soon forgot in love. 
And still I looked upon their loveliness. 
And sought through nature for similitudes 
Of perfect beauty, innocence, and bliss. 
And fairest imagery around me thronged: 
Dew-drops at day-spring on a seraph's locks, 
Roses that bathe about the well of life. 
Young Loves, young Hopes, dancing on. Morning's 

cheek. 
Gems leaping in the coronet of Love I 
So beautiful, so full of life, they seemed \ 
As made entire of beams of angels' eyes. 
Gay, guileless, sportive, lovely, little thjngs ! 
Playing around the den of Sorrow, clad 
In smiles, believing in their fairy hopes. 
And thinking man and woman true ! all joy,. 
Happy all day, and happy all the night ! 

Hail, holy Love ! thou word that sunis all bllsS', 
Gives and receives all bliss, fullest when most 
Thou givest ! spring-head of all felicity. 
Deepest when most is drawn ! emblem of God I 
O'erflowing most when greatest numbers drink.!. 
Essence that binds the uncreated Three, 
Chain that unites creation to its Lord, 
Centre to which all being gravitates, 
Eternal, ever-growing, happy Love ! 
Enduring all, hoping, forgiving all ; 
Instead of law, fulfilling every law^ 
Entirely blest, because thou seekst no more, 
Hopest not, nor fearst; but on the present livest 
And holdst perfection smiling in thy arms. 
Mysterious, infinite, exhaustless Love ! 
On earth mysterious, and mysterious still 
In heaven ! sweet chord, that harmonizes all 
The harps of Paradise ! the spring, the well, 
That fills the bowl and banquet of the sky ! 

But why should I to thee of Love divine 1 
Who happy, and not eloquent of Love 1 
Who holy, and, as thou art, pure, and not 
A temple where her glory ever dwells, 
Where burn her fires, and beams her perfect eye"? 

Kindred to this, part of this holy flame, 
Was youthful love — the sweetest boon of Earth. 
Hail, Love! first Love, thou word that sums ail 

bliss ! 
The sparkling cream of all Time's blessedness, 
The silken down of happiness complete ! 
Discerner of the ripest grapes of joy. 
She gathered, and selected with her hand, 



i 



BOOK V. 



SS' 



All finest relishes, all fairest sights, 

All rarest odours, all divinest sounds, 

All thoughts, all feelings dearest to the soul ; 

And hrought the holy mixture home, and tilled 

The heart with all superlatives of bliss. 

But who would that expound, which words tran 

scends, 
Must talk in vain. Behold a meeting scene 
Of early love, and thence infer its worth. 

It was an eve of Autumn's holiest mood. 
The corn fields, bathed in Cynthia's silver light, 
Stood ready for the reaper's gathering hand ; 
And all the Winds slept soundly. Nature seemed. 
In silent contemplation, to adore 
Its Maker. Now and then, the aged leaf 
Fell from its fellows, rusthng to the ground ; 
And, as it fell, bade man mink on his end. 
On vale and lake, on wood and mountain high, 
With pensive wing outspread, sat heavenly 

Thought, 
Conversing with itself. Vesper looked forth. 
From out her western hermitage, and smiled ; 
And up the east, unclouded, rode the Moon 
With all her Stars, gazing on earth intense, 
As if she saw some wonder walking there. 

Such was the night, so lovely, still, serene, 
When, by a hermit thorn that on the hill 
Had seen a hundred fiowery ages pass, 
A damsel kneeled to oflcr up her prayer. 
Her prayer nightly offered, nightly heard. 
This ancient thorn had been the meeting place 
Of love, before his country's voice had called 
The ardent youth to fields of honour far 
Beyond the wave : and hither now repaired. 
Nightly, the maid, by God's all-seeing eye 
Seen only, while she thought this boon alone 
" Her lover's safety, and his quick return." 
In holy, humble attitude she kneeled, 
And to her bosom, fair as moonbeam, pressed 
One hand, the other lifted up to heaven. 
Her eye, upturned, bright as the star of morn, 
As violet meek, excessive ardour streamed. 
Wafting away her earnest heart to God. 
Her voice, scarce uttered, soft as Zephyr sighs 
On morning lily's cheek, though soft and low. 
Yet heard in heaven, heard at the mercy-seat. 
A tear-drop wandered on her lovely face ; 
It was a tear of faith and holy fear. 
Pure as the drops that hang at dawning time, 
On yonder willows by the stream of life. 
On her the Moon looked steadfastly; the Stars, 
That circle nightly round the eternal Throne, 
Glanced down, well pleased; and Everlasting Love 
Gave gracious audience to her prayer sincere. 

Oh, had her lover seen her thus alone, 
Thus holy, wresthng thus, and all for him! 
Nor did he not : for oft-times Providence, 
With unexpected joy the fervent prayer 
Of faith surprised. Returned from long delay 



With glory crowned of righteous actions won, 
The sacred thorn, to memory dear, first sought 
The youth, and found it at the happy hour. 
Just when the damsel kneeled herself to pray. 
Wrapped in devotion, pleading with her God, 
She saw him not, heard not his foot approacb; 
All holy images seemed too impure 
To emblem her he saw. A seraph kneeled. 
Beseeching for his ward, before the Throne, 
Seemed fittest, pleased liitn best. Sweet was (h& 

thouglit! 
But sweeter still the kind remembrance came, 
That she was flesh and blood, formed for himselfy 
The plighted partner of his future life. 
And as they met, embraced, and sat^ embowered^ 
In woody chambers of the starry night, 
Spirits of love about them ministered. 
And God, approving, blessed the holy joy! 

Nor unremcmberod is the hour when friends \ 
Met. Friends, but few on earth, and therefore \ 

dear; 

Sought oft, and sought almost as oft in vain ; 
Yet always sought, so native to the heart. 
So much desired, and coveted by a!J. 
Nor wonder thou, — thou wonderest not nor necdst. 
Much beautiful, and excellent, and fair 
Was seen beneath the sun ; but nought was seen. 
More beautiful, or excellent, or fair. 
Than iace of faithful friend, fairest when seen 
In darkest day; and many sounds were sweet, 
Most ravishing, and pleasant to the ear ; 
But sweeter none than voice of laithful friend, 
Sweet always, sweetest, heard in loudest storm.. 
Some I remember, and will ne'er forget; 
My early friends, friends of my evil day ;. 
Friends in my mirth, friends in my misery too ; 
Friends given by God in mercy and in love; 
My counsellors, my comforters, and guides ; 
My joy in grief, my second bliss in joy, 
Companions of my young desires ; in doubt. 
My oracles, my wings in high pursuit. 
Oh, I remember, and will ne'er forget, 
Our meeting spots, our chosen, sacred hours. 
Our burning words that uttered aU the soul. 
Our faces beaming with unearthly love; 
Sorrow with son'ow sighing, hope with hope 
Exulting, heart embracing heart entire. 
As birds of social featlier hclj)ing each 
His fellow's flight, we soared into the skies. 
And cast the clouds beneath our feet, and Earth 
With all her tardy, leaden-footed Cares, 
And talked tlie speech and ate the food of heaven! 
These I remember, these selectest men. 
And would their names record ; but what avails 
My mention of their name? Before the Throne 
They stand illustrious 'mong the loudest harps, 
And will receive thee glad, my friend and theirs. 
For all are friends in heaven, all faithful friends ! 
And many friendships, in the days of Time 



34 



THE COURSE OF TIME. 



Begun, are lasting here, and growing still ; 
So grows ours evermore, both theirs and mine. 

Nor is the hour of lonely walk forgot, 
In the wide desert, where the view was large. 
Pleasant were many scenes, but most to me 
The solitude of vast extent, untouched 
By hand of art, where Nature sowed, herself. 
And reaped her crops ; whose garments were the 

clouds, 
Whose minstrels, brooks ; whose lamps, the moon 

and stars ; 
Whose organ-choir, the voice of many waters ; 
Whose banquets, morning dews; whose heroes, 

storms ; 
Whose warriors, mighty winds; whose lovers, 

flowers ; 
Whose orators, the thunderbolts of God ; 
Whose palaces, the everlasting hills ; 
Whose ceiling, heaven's unfathomable blue; 
And from whose rocky turrets, battled high. 
Prospect immense spread out on all sides round, 
Lost now between the welkin and the main. 
Now walled with hills that slept above the storm. 

Most fit was such a place for musing men, 
Happiest sometimes when musing without aim. 
It was, indeed, a wondrous sort of bliss 
The lonely bard enjoyed, when forth he walked, 
Unpurposed; stood, and knew not why; sat down, 
And knew not where ; arose, and knew not when ; 
Had eyes, and saw not ; ears, and nothing heard ; 
And sought — sought neither heaven nor earth — 

sought nought. 
Nor meant to think ; but ran, meantime, through 

vast 
Of visionary things, fairer than aught 
That was ; and saw the distant tops of thoughts. 
Which men of common stature never saw, 
Greater than aught that largest words could hold. 
Or give idea of, to those who read. 
He entered in to Nature's holy place, 
Her inner chamber, and beheld her face 
Unveiled ; and heard unutterable things, 
And incommunicable visions saw ; 
Things then unutterable, and visions then 
Of incommunicable glory bright ; 
But by the lips of after ages formed 
To words, or by their pencil pictured forth ; 
Who, entering farther in, beheld again, 
And heard unspeakable and marvellous things. 
Which other ages in their turn revealed. 
And left to others, greater wonders still. 

The earth abounded much in silent wastes, 
Nor yet is heaven without its solitudes, 
Else incomplete in bliss, whither who will 
May oft retire, and meditate alone, 
Of God, redemption, holiness, and love; 
Nor needs to fear a settirg sun, or haste 
Him home from rainy tempest unforeseen. 
Or sighing, leave his thoughts for want of time. 



But whatsoever was both good and fair, 

And highest relish of enjoyment gave, 

In intellectual exercise was found. 

When gazing through the future, present, past. 

Inspired, thought hnked to thought, harmonious 
flowed 

In poetry — the loftiest mood of mind; 

Or when philosophy the reason led 

Deep through the outward circumstance of things; 

And saw the master-wheels of Nature move ; 

And travelled far along the endless line 

Of certain and of probable ; and made. 

At every step, some new discovery. 

That gave the soul sweet sense of larger room 

High these pursuits, and sooner to be named, 

Deserved ; at present, only named, again 

To be resumed, and praised in longer verse. 
Abundant and diversified above 

All number, were the sources of delight ; 

As infinite as were the lips that drank; 

And to the pure, all innocent and pure; 

The simplest still to wisest men the best. 

One made acquaintanceship with plants and flow- 
ers, 

And happy grew in telling all their names; 

One classed the quadrupeds; a third, the fowls; 

Another found in minerals his joy: 

And I have seen a man, a worthy man, 

In happy mood conversing with a fly ; 

And as he, through his glass, made by himself, 

Beheld its wondrous eye and plumage fine, 
From leaping scarce he kept, for perfect joy. 

And from my path I with my friend have turned, 
A man of excellent mind and excellent heart, 
And climbed the neighbouring hill, with arduous 

step. 
Fetching from distant cairn, or from the earth 
Digging with labour sure, the ponderous stone, 
Which, having carried to the highest top, 
We downward rolled ; and as it strove, at first, 
With obstacles that seemed to match its force. 
With feeble, crooked motion to and fro 
Wavering, he looked with interest most intense. 
And prayed almost; and as it gathered strength. 
And straightened the current of its furious flow. 
Exulting in the swiftness of its course. 
And, rising now with rainbow-bound immense, 
Leaped down careering o'er the subject plain. 
He clapped his hands in sign of boundless bhss. 
And laughed and talked, well paid for all his toil. 
And when at night the story was rehearsed. 
Uncommon glory kindled in his eye. 
And there were too, — Harp ! lift thy voice on 
high. 
And run in rapid numbers o'er the face 
Of Nature's scenery, — and there were day 
And night, and rising suns and setting suns, 
And clouds that seemed like chariots of saints. 
By fiery coursers drawn, as brightly hued 



BOOK V. 



35 



As if the glorious, bushy, golden locks 
Of thousand cherubim had been shorn off, 
And on the temples hung of Morn and Even. 
And there were moons, and stars, and darkness 

streaked 
With light ; and voice and tempest heard secure, 
And there were seasons coming evermore. 
And going still, all fair, and always new, 
With bloom, and fruit, and fields of hoary grain. 
And there were hills of flock, and groves of song. 
And flowery streams, and garden walks embow- 
ered. 
Where, side by side, the rose and lily bloomed ; 
And sacred founts, wild harps, and moonlight 

glens. 
And forests vast, fair lawns, and lonely oaks. 
And little willows sipping at the brook ; 
Old wizard haunts, and dancing seats of mirth ; 
Gay festive bowers, and palaces in dust ; 
Dark owlet nooks, and caves, and battled rocks; 
And winding valleys, roofed with pendent shade ; 
And tall and perilous clifis, that overlooked 
The breadth of Ocean, sleeping on his Vi'avcs; 
Sounds, sights, smells, tastes, the heaven and earth, 

profuse 
In endless sweets, above all praise of song : 
For not to use alone did Providence 
Abound ; but large example gave to man 
Of grace, and ornament, and splendour rich. 
Suited abundantly to every taste. 
In bird, beast, fish, winged and creeping thing, 
In herb, and flower, and in the restless change, 
Which, on the many-coloured seasons, made 
The annual circuit of the fruitful earth. 
Nor do I aught of eartlily sort remember, — 
If partial feeling to my native place 
Lead not my lyre astray, — of fairer view, 
And comelier walk, than the blue mountain-paths, 
And snowy cliflJs of Albion renowned ; 
Albion, an isle long blessed with gracious laws. 
And gracious kings, and favoured much of Hea- 
ven, 
Though yielding oft penurious gratitude. 
Nor do I of that isle remember aught 
Of prospect more sublime and beautiful, 
Than Scotia's northern battlement of hills. 
Which first I from my father's house beheld, 
At dawn of life ; beloved in memory still, 
And standard still of rural imagery. 
What most resembles them, the foircst seems. 
And stirs the eldest sentiments of bliss ; 
And, pictured on the tablet of my heart, 
Their distant shapes eternally remain. 
And in my dreams their cloudy tops arise. 

Much of my native scenery appears. 
And presses forward to be in my song ; 
But must not now, for much behind awaits 
Of higher note. Four trees I pass not by, 
Wliich o'er our house their evening shadow threw 



Three ash, and one of elm. Tall trees they were, 
And old, and had been old a century 
Before my day. No^je living could say aught 
About their youth; but they were goodly trees; 
And oft I wondered, — as I sat and thought 
Beneath their summer shade, or, in the night 
Of winter, heard the spirits of the wind 
Growling among their boughs,— how they had 

grown 
So lijgh, in such a rough, tempestuous place; 
And when a hapless branch, torn by the blast, 
Fell down, I mourned, as if a friend had fallen. 

These I distinctly hold in memory still, 
And all the desert scenery around. 
Nor strange, that recollection there should dwell 
Where first I heard of God's redeeming love; 
First felt and reasoned, loved and was beloved 
And first awoke the harp to holy song. 

To hoar and green there was enough of joy. 
Hopes, friendships, charities, and warm pursuit, 
Gave comfortable flow to youthful blood. 
And there were old remembrances of days, 
When, on the glittering dews of orient life, 
Shone sunshine hopes, unfailed, unperjureJ, then; 
And there were childish sports, and school-boy 

feats. 
And school-hoy spots, and earnest vows of love, 
Uttered, when passion's boisterous tide ran high, 
Sincerely uttered, though but seldom kept: 
And there were angel looks, and sacred hours 
Of rapture, hours that in a moment passed, 
And yet were wished to last for evermore ; 
And venturous exploits, and hardy deeds, 
And bargains shrewd, achieved in manhood's 

prime 
And thousand recollections, gay and sweet, 
Which, as the old and venerable man 
Approached the grave, around him, smiling, flock- 
ed. 
And breathed new ardour through his ebbing 

veins, 
And touched his lips with endless eloquence. 
And cheered I and much refreshed his withered 

heart. 

Indeed, each thing remembered, all but guilt. 
Was pleasant, and a constant source of joy, 
Nor lived the old on memory alone. 
He in his children lived a second life, 
With them again took root, sprang with their 

hopes, 

Entered into their schemes, partook their fears, 
Laughed in their mirth, and in their gain grew 

rich. 

And sometimes on the eldest cheek was seen 
A smile as hearty as on face of youth, 
That saw in prospect sunny hopes invite, 
Hope's pleasures, sung to harp of sweetest note, 
Harp, heard with rapture on Britannia's hills, 
With rapture heard by me, in morn of life. 



36 



THE COURSE OP TIME. 



Nor small the joy of rest to mortal men, 
Rest after labour, sleep approaching soft, 
And wrapping all the weary faculties 
In sweet repose. Then Fancy, unrestrained 
By sense or judgment, strange confusion made 
Of future, present, past, combining things 
Unseemly, things unsociable in nature, 
In most absurd commumon, laughable. 
Though sometimes vexing sore the slumbering 

soul. 
Sporting at will, she, through her airy halls, 
With moonbeams paved, and canopied with stars. 
And tapestried with marvellous imagery, 
And shapes of glory, infinitely fair. 
Moving and mixing in most wondrous dance, — 
Fantastically walked, but pleased so well. 
That ill she hked the judgment's voice severe. 
Which called her home when noisy morn awoke. 
And oft she sprang beyond the bounds of Time 
On her swift pinion lifting up the souls 
Of righteous men, on high to God and heaven. 
Where they beheld unutterable things ; 
And heard the glorious music of the blessed, 
Circling the throne of the Eternal Three; 
And, with the spirits unincarnate, took 
Celestial pastime, on the hills of God, 
Forgetful of the gloomy pass between. 

Some dreams were useless, moved by turbid 
course 
Of animal disorder ; not so all. 
Deep moral lessons some impressed, that nought 
Could afterwards deface : and oft in dreams, 
The master passion of the soul displayed 
His huge deformity, concealed by day. 
Warning the sleeper to beware, awake : 
And oft in dreams, the reprobate and vile, 
Unpardonable sinner, — as he seemed 
Toppling upon the perilous edge of hell, — 
In dreadful apparition, saw, before 
His vision pass, the shadows of the damned; 
And saw the glare of hollow, cursed eyes 
Spring from the skirts of the infernal night ; 
And saw the souls of wicked men, new dead. 
By devils hearsed into the fiery gulf; 
And heard the burning of the endless flames ; 
And heard the weltering of the waves of wrath ; 
And sometimes, too, before his fancy, passed 
The Worm that never dies, writhing its folds 
In hideous sort, and with eternal Death 
Held horrid colloquy, giving the wretch 
Unwelcome earnest of the wo to come. 
But these we leave, as unbefitting song. 
That promised happy narrative of joy. 

But what of all the joys of earth was most 
Of native growth, most proper to the soil. 
Not elsewhere known, in worlds that never fell, 
Was joy that sprung from disappointed wo. 
The joy in grief, the pleasure after pain, 
Fears turned to hopes, meetings expected not, 



DeUverances from dangerous attitudes. 
Better for worse, and best sometimes for worst, 
And all the seeming ill ending in good, — 
A sort of happiness composed, which none 
Has had experience of, but mortal man ; 
Yet not to be despised. Look back, and one 
Behold, who would not give her tear for all 
The smiles that dance about the cheek of Mirth. 
Among the tombs she walks at noon of night, 
In miserable garb of vridowhood. 
Observe her yonder, sickly, pale, and sad, 
Bending her wasted body o'er the grave 
Of him who was the husband of her youth. 
The moonbeams, trembling through these ancient 

yews, 
That stand like ranks of mourners round the bed 
Of death, fall dismally upon her face. 
Her little hollow, withered face, almost 
Invisible, so worn away with wo. 
The tread of hasty foot, passing so late. 
Disturbs her not ; nor yet the roar of mirth, 
From neighbouring revelry ascending loud. 
She hears, sees nought, fears nought. One thought 

alone 
Pills all her heart and soul, half hoping, half 
Remembering, sad, unutterable thought! 
Uttered by silence and by tears alone. 
Sweet tears ! the awful language, eloquent 
Of infinite affection, far too big 
For words. She sheds not many now. That 

grass, 
Which springs so rankly o'er the dead, has drunk 
Already many showers of grief; a drop 
Or two are all that now remain behind. 
And, from her eye that darts strange fiery beams, 
At dreary intervals, drip down her cheek. 
Falling most mournfully from bone to bone. 
But yet she wants not tears. That babe, that 

hangs 
Upon her breast, that babe that never saw 
Its father— he was dead before its birth — 
Helps her to weep, weeping before its time, 
Taught sorrow by the mother's melting voice, 
Repeating oft the father's sacred name. 
Be not surprised at this expense of wo ! 
The man she mourns was all she called her own. 
The music of her ear, light of her eye. 
Desire of all her heart, her hope, her fear, 
The element in which her passions lived. 
Dead now, or dying all : nor long shall she 
Visit that place of skulls. Night after night 
She wears herself away. The moonbeam, now, 
That falls upon her unsubstantial frame. 
Scarce finds obstruction ; and upon her bones, 
Barren as leafless boughs in winter-time. 
Her infant fastens his little hands, as oft. 
Forgetful, she leaves him a while unheld. 
But look, she passes not away in gloom. 
A lit^ht from far illumes her face, a light 



BOOK V. 



37 



That comes beyond the moon, beyond the sun — 
The light of truth divine, the glorious hope 
Of resurrection at the promised morn. 
And meetings then which ne'er shall part again. 

Indulge another note of kindred tone, 
Where grief was mixed with melancholy joy. 

Our sighs were numerous, and profuse our tears, 
For she, we lost, was lovely, and we loved 
Her much. Fresh in our memory, as fresh 
As yesterday, is yet the day she died. 
It was an April day ; and blithely all 
The youth of nature leaped beneath the sun, 
And promised glorious manhood ; an<3 our hearts 
Were glad, and round them danced the lightsome 

blood. 
In healthy merriment, when tidings came, 
A child was born: and tidings came again, 
That she who gave it birth was sick to death. 
So swift trode sorrow on the heels of joy! 
We gathered round her bed. and bent our knees 
In fervent supplication to the Throne 
Of Mercy, and perfumed our prayers with sighs 
Sincere, and penitential tears, and looks 
Of self-abasement ; but we sought to stay 
An angel on the earth, a spirit ripe 
For heaven ; and Mercy, in her love, refused. 
Most merciful, as oft, when seeming least! 
Most gracious when she seemed the most to frown ! 
The room I well remember, and the bed 
On which she lay, and all the faces too. 
That crowded dark and mournfully around. 
Her father there and mother, bending stood ; 
And down their aged cheeks fell many drops 
Of bitterness. Her husband, too, was there. 
And brothers, and they wept; her sisters, too. 
Did weep and sorrow, comfortless; and I, 
Too, wept, though not to weeping given; and all 
Within the house was dolorous and sad. 
This I remember well ; but better still, 
I do remember, and will ne'er forget. 
The dying eye ! That eye alone was bright. 
And brighter grew, as nearer death approached, 
As I have seen the gentle little flower 
Look fairest in the silver beam which fell. 
Reflected from the thunder-cloud that soon 
Came down, and o'er the desert scattered far 
And wide its loveliness. She made a sign 
To bring her babe — 'twas brought, and by her 

placed. 
She looked upon its face, that neither smiled 
Nor wept, nor knew who gazed upon't ; and laid 
Her hand upon its little breast, and sought 
For it, with look that seemed to penetrate 
The heavens, unutterable blessings, such 
As God to dying parents only granted, 
For infants left behind them in the world. 
"God keep my child!" we heard her say, and 

heard 
No more. The Angel of the Covenant 



Was come, and, faithful to his promise, stood, 
Prepared to walk with her through death's dark 

vale. 
And now her eyes grew bright, and brighter still, 
Too bright for ours to look upon, suffused 
With many tears, and closed without a cloud. 
They set as sets the morning star, which goes 
Not down behind the darkened west, nor hides 
Obscured among the tempests of the sky, 
But melts away into the light of heaven. 
Loves, friendships, hopes, and dear remem- 
brances. 
The kind embracings of the heart, and hours 
Of happy thought, and smiles coming to tears, 
And glories of the heaven and starry cope 
Above, and glories of the earth beneath, — 
These were the rays that wandered through the 

gloom 
Of mortal Hfe; wells of the wilderness. 
Redeeming features in the face of Time, 
Sweet drops, that made the mixed cup of Earth 
A palatable draught — too bitter else. 

About the joys and pleasures of the world, 
This question was not seldom in debate ; 
Whether the righteous man, or sinner, had 
The greatest share, and relished them the mostl 
Truth gives the answer thus, gives it distinct, 
Nor needs to reason long : The righteous man. 
For what was he denied of earthly growth. 
Worthy the name of good"? Truth answere^ 

Nought. 
Had he not appetites, and sense, and will I 
Might he not eat, if Providence allowed, 
The finest of the wheat 1 Might he not drink 
The choicest winel True, he was temperate; 
But then, was temperance a foe to peace? 
Might he not rise, and clothe himself in gold? 
Ascend, and stand in palaces of kings'? 
True, he was honest still and charitable: 
Were, then, these virtues foes to human peace 1 
Might he not do exploits, and gain a name 1 
Most true, he trode not down a fellow's right, 
Nor walked up to a throne on skulls of men: 
Were justice, then, and mercy, foes to peace 1 
Had he not friendships, loves, and smiles, and 

hopes 1 
Sat not around his table sons and daughters'? 
Was not his ear with music pleased? his eye 
With light 1 his nostrils with perfumes 1 his lips 
With pleasant relishes 1 Grew not his herds? 
Fell not the rain upon his meadows? reaped 
He not his harvests 1 and did not his heart 
Revel, at will, through all the charities 
And sympathies of nature, unconfined? 
And were not these all sweetened and sanctified 
By dews of holiness, shed from above ? 
Might he not walk through Fancy's airy halls'? 
Might he not History's ample page survey ? 
Might he not, finally, explore the depths 



38 



THE COURSE OP TIME. 



Of mental, moral, natural, divine'? 

But why enumerate thus! One word enough. 

There was no joy in all created things. 

No drop of sweet, that turned not in the end 

To sour, of which the righteous man did not 

Partake ; partake, invited by the voice 

Of God, his Father's voice, who gave him all 

His heart's desire: and o'er the sinner still 

The Christian had this one advantage more, 

That when his earthly pleasures failed, — and fail 

They always did to every soul of man, — 

He sent his hopes on high, looked up, and reached 

His sickle forth, and reaped the fields of heaven, 

And plucked the clusters from the vines of God. 

Nor was the general aspect of the world 
Always a moral waste. A time there came, 
Though few believed it e'er should come ; a time, 
Typed by the Sabbath day recurring once 
In seven, and by the year of rest indulged 
Septennial to the lands on Jordan's banks ; 
A time foretold by Judah's bards in words 
Of fixe, a time, seventh part of time, and set 
Before the eighth and last, the Sabbath day 
Of all the earth, when all had rest and peace. 
Before its coming many to and fro. 
Ran, ran from various cause ; by many sent 
From various cause, upright and crooked both. 
Some sent and ran for love of souls, sincere; 
And more, at instance of a holy name. 
With godly zeal much vanity was mixed ; 
And circumstance of gaudy civil pomp ; 
And speeches buying praise for praise ; and lists. 
And endless scrolls, surcharged with modest names 
That sought the public eye; and stories, told 
In quackish phrase, that hurt their credit, even 
When true; combined with wise and prudent 

means. 
Much wheat, much chaflF, much gold, and much 

alloy; 
But God wrought with the whole, wrought most 

with what 
To man seemed weakest means, and brought re- 
sult 
Of good, from good and evil both; and breathed 
Into the withered nations breath and life, 
The breath and life of liberty and truth. 
By means of knowledge, breathed into the soul. 

Then was the evil day of tyranny. 
Of kingly and of priestly tyranny, 
That bruised the nations long. As yet, no state 
Beneath the heavens had tasted freedom's wine, 
Though loud of freedom was the talk of all. 
Some groaned more deeply, being heavier tasked, 
Some wrought with straw, and some without; but 

all 
Were slaves, or meant to be ; for rulers, still, 
Had been of equal mind, excepting few. 
Cruel, rapacious, tyrannous, and vile. 
And had with equal shoulder propped the Beast. 



As yet, the Church, the holy spouse of God, 
In members few, had wandered in her weeds 
Of mourning, persecuted, scorned, reproached, 
And buffeted, and killed ; in members few, 
Though seeming many whiles ; then fewest, oft, 
When seeming most. She still had hung her harp 
Upon the willow-tree, and sighed, and wept 
From age to age. Satan began the war, 
And all his angels, and all wicked men, 
Against her fought by wile, or fierce attack, 
Six thousand years ; but fought in vain. She stood, 
Troubled on every side, but not distressed ; 
Weeping, but yet despairing not; cast down. 
But not destroyed : for she upon the palms 
Of God was graven, and precious in his sight, 
As apple of his eye; and, like the bush 
On Midia's mountain seen, burned unconsumed; 
But to the wilderness retiring, dwelt. 
Debased in sackcloth, and forlorn in tears. 

As yet had sung the scarlet-coloured Whore, • 
Who on the breast of civil power reposed 
Her harlot head, (the Church a harlot then, 
When first she wedded civil power,) and drank 
The blood of martyred saints, — whose priests were 

lords. 
Whose coffers held the gold of every land, 
Who held a cup of all pollutions full. 
Who with a double horn the people pushed, 
And raised her forehead, full of blasphemy. 
Above the holy God, usurping oft 
Jehovah's incommunicable names. 
The nations had been dark ; the Jews had pined, 
Scattered without a name, beneath the Curse; 
War had abounded, Satan raged, unchained ; 
And earth had still been black with moral gloom. 

But now the cry of men oppressed went up 
B.efore the Lord, and to remembrance came 
The tears of all his saints, their tears, and groans. 
Wise men had read the number of the name ; 
The prophet-years had rolled ; the time, and times 
And half a time, were now ftilfilled complete; 
The seven fierce vials of the wrath of God, 
Poured by seven angels strong, were shed abroad 
Upon the earth, and emptied to the dregs; 
The prophecy for confirmation stood ; 
And all was ready for the sword of God. 

The righteous saw, and fled without delay, 
Into the chambers of Omnipotence. 
The wicked mocked, and sought for erring cause. 
To satisfy the dismal state of things ; 
The public credit gone, the fear in time 
Of peace, the starving want in time of wealth. 
The insurrection muttering in the streets, 
And pallid consternation spreading wide ; 
And leagues, though holy termed, first ratified 
In hell, on purpose made to under-prop 
Iniquity, and crush the sacred truth. 

Meantime, a mighty angel stood in heaven, 
And cried aloud, "Associate now yourselves, 



BOOK V. 



39 



Ye princes, potentates, and men of war, 

And mitred heads, associate now yourselves, 

And be dispersed ; embattle, and be broken. 

Gird on your armour, and be dashed to dust. 

Take counsel, and it shall be brought to nought. 

Speak, and it shall not stand." And suddenly 

The armies of the saints, irabannered, stood 

On Zion hill ; and with them angels stood 

In squadron bright, and cjiariots of fire ; 

And with them stood the Lord, clad like a man 

Of war, and to the sound of thunder, led 

The battle on. Earth shook, the kingdoms shook, 

The Beast, the lying Seer, dominions, fell ; 

Thrones, tyrants fell, confounded in the dust. 

Scattered and driven before the breath of God, 

As chaff of summer threshing floor, before 

The wind. Three days the battle wasting slew. 

The sword was full, the arrow drunk with blood ; 

And to the supper of Almighty God, 

Spread in Hamonah's vale, the fowls of heaven, 

And every beast, invited, came, and fed 

On captains' flesh, and drank the blood of kings. 

And, lo! another angel stood in heaven. 
Crying aloud with mighty voice, "Fallen, fallen, 
Is Babylon the Great, to rise no more. 
Rejoice, ye prophets! over her rejoice. 
Apostles! holy men, all saints, rejoice! 
And glory give to God and to the Lamb." 
And all the armies of disburdened earth, 
As voice of many waters, and as voice 
Of thunderings, and voice of multitudes. 
Answered, Amen. And every hill and rock, 
And sea, and every beast, answered, Ameii. 
Europa answered, and the farthest bounds 
Of woody Chili, Asia's fertile coasts. 
And Afric's burning wastes, answered. Amen. 
And Heaven, rejoicing, answered back. Amen. 

Not so the wicked. They afar were heard 
Lamenting. Kings, who drank her cup of whore- 
doms. 
Captains, and admirals, and mighty men. 
Who lived dcliciously; and merciiants, rich 
With merchandize of gold, and wine, and oil; 
And those who traded in the souls of men. 
Known by their gaudy robes of priestly pomp ; — 
All these afar ofl' stood, cryinsr, Alas! 
Alas! and wept, and gnaslied their teeth, and 

groaned ; 
And, with the owl that on her ruins sat. 
Made dolorous concert in the ear of Night. 
And over her again the Fleavcns rejoiced, 
And Earth returned again the loud response. 
Thrice happy days ! thrice blessed the man who 
saw 
Their dawn ! The Church and State, that long 

had held 
Unholy intercourse, were now divorced ; 
Princes were righteous men, judges upright ; 
And first, in general, now — for in the worst 



Of times there were some honest seers — the priest 
Sought other than the fleece among his flocks, 
Best paid when God was honoured most ; and Uke 
A cedar, nourished well, Jerusalem grew, 
And towered on high, and spread, and flourished 

fair; 
And underneath her boughs the nations lodged, 
All nations lodged, and sung the song of peace. 
From the four winds, the Jews, eased of the Curse, 
Returned, and dwelt with God in Jacob's land, 
And drank of Sharon and of Carniel's vine. 
Satan was bound, though bound, not banished 

quite, 
But lurked about the timorous skirts of things, 
III lodged, and thinking whiles to leave the earth, 
And with the wicked, — for some wicked were, — 
Held midnight meetings, as the saints were wont, 
Fearful of day, who once was as the sun, 
And worshipped more. The bad, but few, became 
A taunt and hissing now, as heretofore 
The good ; and, blushing, hasted out of sight. 
Disease was none ; the voice of war forgot ; 
The sword, a share; a pruning-hook, the spear 
Men grew and multiplied upon the earth. 
And filled the city and the waste ; and Death 
Stood waiting for the lapse of tardy Age, 
That mocked him long. Men grew and multi- 
plied. 
But lacked not bread ; for God his promise brought 
To mind, and blessed the land with plenteous rain . 
And made it blessed for dews and precious things 
Of heaven, and blessings of the deep beneath. 
And blessings of the sun and moon, and fruits 
Of day and night, and blessings of the vale. 
And precious things of the eternal hills. 
And all the fulness of perpetual spring. 

The prison-house, where chained felons pined 
Threw open his ponderous doors, let in the light 
Of heaven, and grew into a cliurch, where God 
Was worshipped. None were ignorant, selfish 

none. 
Love took the place of law ; where'er you met 
A man, you met a friend, smcere and true. 
Kind looks foretold as kind a heart within; 
Words as they sounded, meant ; and promises 
Were made to be performed. Thrice happy days! 
Philosophy was sanctified, and saw 
Perfections that she thought a fable, long. 
Revenge his dagger dropped, and kissed the hand 
Of Mercy ; Anger cleared his cloudy brow. 
And sat with Peace ; Envy grew red, and smiled 
On Worth; Pride stooped, and kissed Humility; 
Lust washed his miry hands, and, wedded, leaned 
On chaste Desire; and Falsehood laid aside 
His many- fill led cloak, and bowed to Truth; 
And Treachery up from his mining came. 
And walked above the ground with righteous 

Faith ; 
And Covctousness unclenched his sinewy hand, 



THE COURSE OP TIME. 



And opened his door to Charity, the fair; 
Hatred was lost in Love ; and Vanity 
With a good conscience pleased, her feathers crop- 
ped; 
Sloth in the morning rose with Industry ; 
To Wisdom Folly turned ; and Fashion turned 
Deception off, in act as good as word. 
The hand that held a whip was lifted up 
To bless ; slave was a word in ancient books 
Met, only; every man was free; and all 
Feared God, and served him day and night in love. 

How fair the daughter of Jerusalem then ! 
How gloriously from Zion Hill she looked ! 
Clothed with tlie sun, and in her train the moon. 
And on her head a coronet of stars. 
And girding round her waist, with heavenly grace, 
The bow of Mercy bright ; and in her hand 
Immanuel's cross, her sceptre and her hope. 

Desire of every land ! the nations came, 
And worshipped at her feet ; all nations came, 
Flocking hke doves : Columba's painted tribes, 
That from Magellan to the Frozen Bay, 
Beneath the Arctic, dwelt ; and drank the tides 
Of Amazona, prince of earthly streams ; 
Or slept at noon beneath the giant shade 
Of Andes' mount ; or, roving northward, heard 
Niagara sing, from Erie's billow down 
To Frontenac, and hunted thence the fur 
To Labrador : and Afric's dusky swarms, 
That from Morocco to Angola dwelt, 
And drank the Niger from his native wells, 
Or roused the lion in Numidia's groves ; 
The tribes that sat among the fabled cliffs 
Of Atlas, looking to Atlanta's wave ; 
With joy and melody, arose and came. 
Zara awoke and came, and Egypt came, 
Casting her idol gods into the Nile. 
Black Ethiopa, that, shadowless. 
Beneath the Torrid burned, arose and came. 
Dauma and Medra, and the pirate tribes 
Of Algeri, with incense came, and pure 
Offerings, annoying now the seas no more. 
The silken tribes of Asia, flocking came, 
Innumerous ; Ishmael's wandering race, that rode 
On camels o'er the spicy tract that lay 
From Persia to the Red Sea coast; the king 
Of broad Cathay, with numbers infinite, 
Of many lettered casts; and all the tribes 
That dwelt from Tigris to the Ganges' wave, 
And worshipped fire, or Brahma, fabled god ; 
Cashmeres, Circassians, Banyans, tender racei 
That swept the insect from their path, and lived 
On herbs and fruits ; and those who peaceful dwelt 
Along the shady avenue that stretched 
From Agra to Lahore; and all the hosts 
That owned the Crescent late, deluded long ; 
The Tartar hordes, that roamed from Oby's bank, 
Ungoverned, southward to the wondrous Wall. 
The tribe.'? of Europe camo: the Greek, redeemed 



From Turkish thrall, the Spaniard came, andGaul, 
And Britain with her ships, and, on his sledge, 
The Laplander, that nightly watched the bear 
Circling the Pole ; and those who saw the flames 
Of Hecia burn the drifted snow ; the Russ, 
Long-whiskered, and equestrian Pole; and those 
Who drank the Rhine, or lost the evening sun 
Behind tlie Alpine towers ; and she that sat 
By Arno, classic stream ; Venice, or Rome, 
Plead quarters long of sin ! first guileless now. 
And meaning as she seemed, stretched forth her 

hands 
And all the Isles of ocean rose and came, 
Whether they heard the roll of banished tides, 
Antipodes to Albion's wave, or watched 
The Moon, ascending chalky Teneriffe, 
And with Atlanta holding nightly love. 
The Sun, the Moon, the Constellations, came : 
Thrice twelve and ten that watched the Antarctic 

sleep. 
Twice six that near the Ecliptic dwelt, thrice twelve 
And one, that with the streamers danced, and saw 
The Hyperborean Ice guarding the Pole. 
The East, the West, the South, and Snowy North, 
Rejoicing met, and worshipped reverently 
Before the Lord, in Zion's holy hill ; 
And all the places round about were blessed. 

The animals, as once in Eden, lived 
In peace. The wolf dwelt with the lamb, the bear 
And leopard with the ox. With looks of love, 
The tiger and the scaly crocodile 
Together met, at Gambia's palmy wave. 
Perched on the eagle's wing, the bird of song, 
Singing, arose, and visited the sun ; 
And with the falcon sat the gentle lark. 
The little child leaped from his mother's arms 
And stroked the crested snake, and rolled unhurt 
Among his speckled waves, and wished him home; 
And sauntering school-boys, slow returning, played 
At eve about the lion's den, and wove, 
Into his shaggy mane, fantastic flowers. 
To meet the husbandman, early abroad, 
Hasted the deer, and waved its woody head ; 
And round his dewy steps, the hare, unscared, 
Sported ; and toyed familiar with his dog. 
The flocks and herds, o'er hill and valley spread, 
Exulting, cropped the ever-budding herb. 
The desert blossomed, and the barren sung. 
Justice and Mercy, Holiness and Love, 
Among the people walked, Messiah reigned, 
And Earth kept Jubilee a thousand years. 



BOOK VI. 

Resume thy tone of wo, immortal Harp ! 

The song of mirth is past, the Jubilee 

Is ended, and the sun begins to fade! 

Soon passed, for Happiness counts not the hours. 



BOOK VL 



41 



To her a thousand years seem as a day ; 
A day, a thousand years to Misery. 
Satan is loose, and Violence is heard, 
And Riot in the street, and Revelry 
Intoxicate, and Murder, and Revenge. 
Put on your armour now, ye righteous ! put 
The helmet of salvation on, and gird 
Your loins about with truth ; add righteousness. 
And add the shield of faith, and take the sword 
Of God — awake and watch! — The day is near, 
Great day of God Almighty and the Lamb ! 
The harvest of the earth is fully ripe; 
Vengeance begins to tread the great wine-press 
Of fierceness and of wrath ; and Mercy pleads, 
Mercy that pleaded long, she pleads — no more ! 
Whence comes that darkness "? whence those yells 

of wo 7 
What thunderings are these that shake the world 1 
Why fall the lamps from heaven as blasted figs? 
Why tremble righteous men ? why angels pale 1 
Why is all fear? what has become of hope? 
God comes ! God, in his car of vengeance, comes ! — 
Hark ! louder on the blast, come hollow shrieks 
Of dissolution ! in the fitful scowl 
Of night, near and more near, angels of death 
Incessant flap their deadly wings, and roar 
Through all the fevered air ! the mountains rock. 
The moon is sick, and all the stars of heaven 
Burn feebly! oft and sudden gleams the fire, 
Revealing awfully the brow of Wrath ! 
The Thunder, long and loud, utters his voice, 
Responsive to the Ocean's troubled growl ! 
Night comes, last night, the long, dark, dark, dark 

night, 
That has no morn beyond it, and no star ! 
No eye of man hath seen a night like this ! 
Heaven's trampled Justice girds itself for fight ! 
Earth, to thy knees, and cry for mercy ! cry 
With earnest heart, for thou art growing old 
And hoary, unrepented, unforgiven ! 
And all thy glory mourns! The vintage mourns ' 
Bashan and Carmel, mourn and weep ! and mourn, 
Thou Lebanon! with all thy cedars, mourn. 
Sun ! glorying in thy strength from age to age, 
So long observant of tliy hour, put on 
Thy weeds of wo, and tell the Moon to weep ; 
Utter thy grief at mid-day, morn, and even ; 
Tell all the nations, tell the Clouds that sit 
About the portals of tlxe east and west, 
And wanton with thy golden locks, to wait 
Thee not to-morrow, for no morrow comes ! 
Tell men and women, tell the ncw-lwrn child, 
And every eye that sees, to come, and see 
Thee set behind Eternity, for thou 
Shalt go to bed to-night, and ne'er awake! 
Stars! walking on the pavement of the sky, 
Out-sentinels of heaven, watching the earth, 
•Cease dancing now; your lamps arc growinrf dim. 
Your graves are dug amon;? the dismal clouds, 



And angels are assembling round your bier! 
Orion, mourn ! and Mazzaroth, and thou, 
Arcturus ! mourn, with all thy northern sons, 
Daughters of Pleiades! that nightly shed 
Sweet influence, and thou, fairest of stars! 
Eye of the morning, weep ! and weep at eve ! 
Weep setting, now to rise no more, "and flame 
On forehead of the dawn," — as sung the bard, 
Great bard ! who used on Earth a seraph's lyre, 
Whose numbers wandered through eternity. 
And gave sweet foretaste of the heavenly harps'. 
Minstrel of sorrow! native of the dark, 
Shrub-loving Philomel, that wooed the Dews, 
At midnight from their starry beds, and, charmed, 
Held them around thy song til! dawn awoke. 
Sad bird! pour through the gloom thy weeping 

song. 
Pour all thy dying melody of grief, 
And with the turtle spread the wave of wo! 
Spare not thy reed, for thou shalt sing no more ! 

Ye holy bards I — if yet a holy bard 
Remain, — what chord shall serve you now ! what 

harp! 
What harp shall sing the dying Sun asleep. 
And mourn behind the funeral of the Moon ! 
What harp of boundless, deep, exhaustless wo, 
Shall utter forth the groanings of the damned t 
And sing the obsequies of wicked souls! 
And wail their plunge in the eternal fire ! — 
Hold, hold your hands! hold, angels! — God la- 
ments. 
And draws a cloud of mourning round his throne! 
The Organ of Eternity is mute! 
And there is silence in the Heaven of Heavens! 
Daughters of beauty ! choice of beings made ! 
Much praised, much blamed, much loved; but fair- 
er far 
Than aught beheld, than aught imagined else; 
Fairest, and dearer than all else most dear; 
Light of the darksome wilderness! to Time 
As stars to night, wliose eyes were spells that held 
The passenger forgetful of his way. 
Whose steps were majesty, whose words were song, 
Whose smiles were hope, whose actions, perfect 

grace. 
Whose love, tlie solace, glory, and delight 
Of man, his boast, his riches, his renown ; 
When found, sufficient bliss! when lost, despair! — 
Stars of creation ! images of love I 
Break up the fountains of your tears, your tears. 
More eloquent than learned tongue, or lyre 
Of purest note ! your sunny raiment stain, 
Put dust upon your heads, lament and weep, 
And utter all your minstrelsy of wo ! 

Go to, ye wicked, weep and howl ; for all 
That God hath written against you is at hand 
The cry of Violence hath reached his ear. 
Hell is prepared, and Justice whets his sword. 
Weep all of every name ! Begin the wo, 



43 



THE COURSE OP TIME. 



Ye woods, and tell it to the doleful winds, 
And doleful winds, wail to the howling hills ; 
And howling hills, mourn to the dismal vales. 
And dismal vales, sigh to the sorrowing brooks, 
And sorrowing brooks, weep to the weeping 

stream, 
And weeping stream, awake the groaning deep ; 
And let the instrument take up the song, 
Responsive to the voice, harmonious wo ! 
Ye Heavens, great arch-way of the universe, 
Put sackcloth on; and Ocean, clothe thyself 
In garb of widowhood, and gather all 
Thy waves into a groan, and utter it. 
Long, loud, deep, piercing, dolorous, immense. 
The occasion asks it ! — Nature dies, and God 
And angels come to lay her in the grave ! 
But we have overleaned our theme ; behind, 
A little season waits a verse or two, 
The years that followed the millennial rest. 
Bad years they were; and first, as signal sure, 
That at the core religion was diseased. 
The sons of Levi strove again for place. 
And eminence, and names of swelling pomp; 
Setting their feet upon the people's neck, 
And slumbering in the lap of civil power, 
Of civil power again tyrannical : 
And second sign, sure sign, whenever seen. 
That holiness was dying in a land. 
The Sabbath was profaned and set at nought; 
The honest seer, who spoke the truth of God 
Plainly, was left with empty walls ; and round 
The frothy orator, who busked his tales 
In quackish pomp of noisy Words, the ear 
Tickhng, but leaving still the heart unprobed. 
The judgment uninformed, — numbers immense 
Flocked, gaping wide, with passions high in- 
flamed ; 
And on the way returning, heated, home. 
Of eloquence, and not of truth, conversed — 
Mean eloquence that wanted sacred truth. 

Two principles from the beginning strove 
In human nature, still dividing man, — 
Sloth and activity; the lust of praise. 
And indolence that rather wished to sleep. 
And not unfrequently in the same mind 
They dubious contest held ; one gaining now. 
And now the other crowned, and both again 
Keeping the lieid, with equal combat fought. 
Much different was their voice. Ambition called 
To action. Sloth invited to repose. 
Ambition early rose, and, being up, 
Toiled ardently, and late retired to rest ; 
Sloth lay till mid-day, turning on his couch, 
Like ponderous door upon its weary hinge. 
And, having rolled him out with much ado. 
And many a dismal sigh, and vain attempt, 
He sauntered out, accoutred carelessly, — 
With half-oped, misty, unobservant eye. 
Somniferous, that weighed the object down 



On which its burden fell, — an hour or two, 
Then with a groan retired to rest again. 
The one, whatever deed had been achieved, 
Thought it too little, and too small the praise ; 
The other tried to think, — for thinking so 
Answered his purpose best, — that what of great 
Mankind could do had been already done ; 
And therefore laid him calmly down to sleep. 

Different in mode, destructive both alike. 
Destructive always indolence ; and love 
Of fame destructive always too, if less 
Than praise of God it sought, content with less : 
Even then not current, if it sought his praise 
From other motive than resistless love ; 
Though base, main-spring of action in the world; 
And, under name of vanity and pride, 
Was greatly practised on by cunning men. 
It opened the niggard's purse, clothed nakedness, 
Gave beggars food, and threw the Pharisee 
Upon his knees, and kept him long in act 
Of prayer; it spread the lace upon the fop. 
His language trimmed, and planned his curious 

gait. 
It stuck the feather on the gay coquette, 
And on her finger laid the heavy load 
Of jewellery; it did — what did it not! 
The gospel preached, the gospel paid, and sent 
The gospel ; conquered nations, cities built, 
Measured the furrow of the field with nice 
Directed share, shaped bulls, and cows, and rams, 
And threw the ponderous stone ; and pitiful. 
Indeed, and much against the grain, it dragged 
The stagnant, dull, predestinated fool. 
Through learning's halls, and made him labour 

much 
Abortively, though sometimes not unpraised 
He left the sage's chair, and home returned 
Making his simple mother think that she 
Had borne a man. In schools, designed to root 
Sin up, and plant the seeds of holiness 
In youthful minds, it held a signal place. 
The little infant man, by nature proud. 
Was taught the scriptures by the love of praise, 
And grew religious as he grew in fame. 
And thus the principle, which out of heaven 
The devil threw, and threw him down to hell, 
And keeps him there, was made an instrument 
To moralize and sanctify mankind. 
And in their hearts beget humility; 
With what success it needs not now to say. 

Destructive both we said, activity 
And sloth : behold the last exemplified, 
In literary man. Not all at once. 
He yielded to the soothing voice of sleep ; 
But, having seen a bough of laurel wave, 
He effort made to climb ; and friends, and even 
Himself, talked of his greatness, as at hand, 
And, prophesying, drew his future life. 
Vain prophecy ! his fancy, taught by sloth, 



BOOK VI. 



43 



Saw, in the very threshold of pursuit, 
A thousand obstacles ; he halted first. 
And while he halted, saw his burning hojjcs 
Grow dim and dimmer still ; ambition's self, 
The advocate of loudest tongue, decayed ; 
His purposes, made daily, daily broken. 
Like plant uprooted oil, and set again, 
More sickly grew, and daily wavered more ; 
Till at the last, decision, quite worn out. 
Decision, fulcrum of the mental powers, 
Resigned the blasted soul to staggering chance ; 
Sleep gathered fast, and weighed him downward 

still; 
His eye fell heavy from the mount of fame ; 
His young resolves to benefit the world 
Perished and were forgotten ; he shut his ear 
Against the painful news of rising worth ; 
And drank with desperate thirst tKe poppy's juice ; 
A deep and mortal slumber settled down 
Upon his weary faculties oppressed; 
He rolled from side to side, and rolled again ; 
And snored, and groaned, and withereci, and ex- 
pired. 
And rotted on the spot, leaving no name. 

The hero best example gives of toil 
Unsanctified. One word his history writes. 
" He was a murderer above the laws. 
And greatly praised for doing murderous deeds." 
And now he grew, and reached his perfect 

growth ; 
And also now the sluggard soundest slept 
And by him lay the uninterred corpse. 
Of every order, sin and wickedness, 
Deliberate, cool, malicious villany. 
This age, attained maturity, unknown 
Before ; and seemed in travail to bring forth 
Some last, enormous, monstrous deed of guilt. 
Original, unprecedented guilt, 
That might obliterate the memory 
Of what had hitherto been done most vile. 
Inventive men were paid, at pubhc cost. 
To plan new modes of sin ; the holy Word 
Of God was burned, with acclamations loud; 
New tortures were invented for the good ; — 
For still some good remained, as whiles through 

sky 
Of thickest clouds, a wandering star appeared ; — 
New oaths of blasphemy were framed and sworn; 
And men in reputation grew, as grew 
The stature of their crimes. Faith was not found. 
Truth was not found, truth always scarce, so 

scarce 
That half the misery which groaned on earth. 
In ordinary times, was progeny 
Of disappointment, daily coming forth 
From broken promises, that might have ne'er 
Been made, or, being made, might have been kept; 
Justice and mercy, too, were rare, obscured 
In cottage garb: before the palace door, 



The beggar rotted, starving in his rags ; 

And on the threshold of luxurious domes. 

The orphan child laid down his head, and died j 

Nor unamusing was his piteous cry 

To women, who had now laid tenderness 

Aside, best pleased with sights of cruelty; 

Flocking, when fouler lusts would give them time, 

To horrid spectacles of blood, where men. 

Or guiltless beasts, that seemed to look to heaven, 

With eye imploring vengeance on the earth. 

Were tortured for the merriment of kings. 

The advocate for him who offered most 

Pleaded ; the scribe, according to the hire, 

Worded the lie, adding, for every piece. 

An oath of confirmation ; judges raised. 

One hand to intimate the sentence, death, 

Imprisonment, or fine, or loss of goods, 

And in the other held a lusty bribe. 

Which they had taken to give the sentence wrong ; 

So managing tlie scale of justice still. 

That he was wanting found who poorest seemed. 

But laymen, most renowned for devilish deeds, 

Laboured at distance still behind the priest ; 

He shore his sheep, and, having packed the wool, 

Sent them unguarded to the hill of wolves ; 

And to the bowl deliberately sat down, 

And with his mistress mocked at sacred things. 

The theatre was, from the very first. 

The favourite haunt of Sin, though honest men, 

Some very honest, wise, and worthy men. 

Maintained it might be turned to good account; 

And so perhaps it might, but never was. 

From first to last it was an evil place : 

And now such things were acted there, as made 

The devils blush ; and from the neighbourhood, 

Angels and holy men, trembling, retired: 

And what with dreadful aggravation crowned 

This dreary time, was sin against the light. 

All men knew God, and, knowing, disobeyed 

And gloried to insult him to his face. 

Another feature only we shall mark. 
It was withal a highly polished age. 
And scrupulous in ceremonious rite. 
When stranger stranger met upon the way, 
First, each to each bowed most respectfully. 
And large profession made of humble service, 
And then the stronger took the other's jmrse. 
And he that stabbed his neighbour to the heart, 
Stabbed him politely, and returned the blade 
Reeking into its sheath with graceful air. 

Meantime the earth gave symptoms of her end, 
And all the scenery above proclaimed, 
That the great last catastrophe was near. 
The Sun at rising staggered and fell back, 
As one too early up, after a night 
Of late debauch ; then rose, and shone again. 
Brighter than wont ; and sicked again, and paused 
In zenith altitude, as one fatigued ; 
And shed a feeble twilight ray at noon, 



44 



THE COURSE OP TIME, 



Rousing the wolf before his time to ehase 
The shepherd and his sheep, that sought for light, 
And darkness found, astonished, terrified ; 
Then, out of course, rolled furious down the west. 
As chariot reined by awkward charioteer ; 
And, waiting at the gate, he on the earth 
Gazed, as he thought he ne'er might see't again. 
The bow of mercy, heretofore so fair. 
Ribbed with the native hues of heavenly love, 
Disastrous colours showed, unseen till now ; 
Changing upon the watery gulf, from pale 
To fiery red, and back again to pale ; 
And o'er it hovered wings of wrath. The Moon 
Swaggered in midst of heaven, grew black, and 

dark, 
Unclouded, uneclipsed. The Stars fell down, 
Tumbling from off their towers hke drunken men, 
Or seemed to fall; and glimmered now, and now 
Sprang out in sudden blaze and dimmed again, 
As lamp of foolish virgin lacking oil. 
The heavens, this moment, looked serene; the next. 
Glowed like an oven with God's displeasure hot 

Nor less, below, was intimation given. 
Of some disaster great and ultimate. 
The tree that bloomed, or hung with clustering 

fruit, 
Untouched by visible calamity 
Of frost or tempest, died and came again. 
The flower and herb fell down as sick ; then rose 
And fell again. The fowls of every hue. 
Crowding together, sailed on weary wing ; 
And, hovering, oft they seemed about to light ; 
Then soared, as if they thought the earth unsafe. 
The cattle looked with meaning face on man. 
Dogs howled, and seemed to see more than their 

masters. 
And there were sights that none had seen before; 
And hollow, strange, unprecedented sounds. 
And earnest whisperings ran along the hills 
At dead of night ; and long, deep, endless sighs, 
Came from the dreary vale ; and from the waste 
Came horrid shrieks, and fierce unearthly groans. 
The wail of evil spirits, that now felt 
The hour of utter vengeance near at hand. 
The winds from every quarter blew at once, 
With desperate violence, and, whirling, took 
The traveller up, and threw him down again, 
At distance from his path, confounded, pale ; 
And shapes, strange shapes ! in winding sheets 

were seen, 
Gliding through night, and singing funeral songs. 
And imitating sad, sepulchral rites ; 
And voices talked among the clouds, and still 
The words that men could catch were spoken of 

them. 
And seemed to be the words of wonder great. 
And expectation of some vast event. 
Earth shook, and swam, and reeled, and opened 

her jaws, 



By earthquake tossed, and tumbled to and fro ; 
And, louder than the ear of man had heard, 
The Thunder bellowed, and the Ocean groaned. 
The race of men, perplexed, but not reformed. 
Flocking together, stood in earnest crowds, 
Conversing of the awful state of things. 
Some curious explanations gave, unlearned ; 
Some tried affectedly to laugh, and some 
Gazed stupidly; but all were sad and pale. 
And vdshed the comment of the wise. Nor less 
These prodigies, occurring night and day, 
Perplexed philosophy. The magi tried, — 
Magi, a name not seldom given to fools, 
In the vocabulary of earthly speech, — 
They tried to trace them still to second cause 
But scarcely satisfied themselves ; though round 
Their deep deliberations, crowding, came, 
And, wondering at their wisdom, went away, 
Much quieted and very much deceived. 
The people, always glad to be deceived. 

These warnings passed, they, unregarded, passed, 
And all in wonted order calmly moved. 
The pulse of Nature regularly beat. 
And on her cheek the bloom of perfect health 
Again appeared. Deceitful pulse ! and bloom 
Deceitful ! and deceitful calm ! The Earth 
Was old, and worn within ; but, like the man. 
Who noticed not his mid-day strength decline, 
Sliding so gently round the curvature 
Of life, from 3'outh to age, — she knew it not. 
The calm was like the calm, which oft the man, 
Dying, experienced before his death ; 
The bloom was but a hectic flush, before 
The eternal paleness. But all these were taken, 
By this last race of men, for tokens of good ; 
And blustering public News aloud proclaimed — 
News always gabbling ere they well had thought — 
Prosperity, and jo}^, and peace ; and mocked 
The man who, kneeling, prayed, and trembled still, 
And all in earnest to their sins returned. 

It was not so in heaven. The elders round 
The Throne conversed about the state of man, 
Conjecturing. — for none of certain knew, — 
That Time was at an end. They gazed intense 
Upon the Dial's face, which yonder stands 
In gold, before the Sun of Righteousness, 
Jehovah, and computes time, seasons, years, 
And destinies, and slowly numbers o'er 
The mighty cycles of eternity; 
By God alone completely understood. 
But read by all, reveahng much to all. 
And now, to saints of eldest skill, the ray. 
Which on the gnomon fell of Time, seemed sent 
From level west, and hasting quickly down. 
The holy Virtues, watching, saw, besides. 
Great preparation going on in heaven, 
Betokening great event, greater than aught 
That first-created seraphim had seen. 
The faithful messengers, who have for wing 



BOOK VL 



45 



The lightning, waiting, day and night, on God : 
Before his face, beyond their usual speed, 
On pinion of celestial light were seen, 
Coming and going, and their road was still 
From heaven to earth, and back again to heaven, 
The angel of Mercy, bent before the Throne, 
By earnest pleading, seemed to hold the hand 
Of Vengeance back, and win a moment more 
Of late repentance for some sinful world 
In jeopardy : and, now, the hill of God, 
The mountain of his majesty, rolled flames 
Of fire, now smiled with momentary love, 
And now again with fiery fierceness burned ; 
And from behind the darkness of his Throne, , 
Through which created vision never saw, 
The Uving Thunders, in their native caves, 
Muttered the terrors of Omnipotence, 
And ready seemed, impatient to fulfil 
Some errand of exterminating wrath. ^■ 

Meanwhile the Earth increased in wickedness, 
And hasted daily to fill up her cup. 
Satan raged loose. Sin had her will, and Death 
Enough. Blood trode upon the heels of blood. 
Revenge, in desperate mood, at midnight met 
Revenge, War brayed to War, Deceit deceived 
Deceit, Lie cheated Lie, and Treachery 
Mined under Treachery, and Perjury 
Swore back on Perjury, and Blasphemy 
Arose with hideous Blasphemy, and Curse 
Loud answered Curse ; and drunkard, stumbling, 

fell 
O'er drunkard fallen ; and husband husband met, 
Returning each from other's bed defiled ; 
Thief stole from thief, and robber on the way 
Knocked robber down, and Lewdness, Violence, 
And Hate, met Lewdness, Violence, and Hate. 
Oh, Earth ! thy hour was come ! the last elect 
Was born, complete the number of the good. 
And the last sand fell from the glass of Time. 
The cup of guilt was full up to the brim; 
And Mercy, weary with beseeching, had 
Retired behind the sword of Justice, red 
With ultimate and unrcpenting wrath ; 
But man knew not: he o'er his bowl laughed loud, 
And, prophesying, said, " To-morrow shall 
As this day be, and more abundant still !" 
As thou shalt hear — But, hark! the trumpet 

sounds. 
And calls to evening song ; for, though with hymn 
Eternal, course succeeding course, extol 
In presence of the incarnate, holy God, 
And celebrate his never-ending praise, — 
Duly at morn and night, the multitudes 
Of men redeemed, and angels, all the hosts 
Of glory, join in universal song. 
And pour celestial harmony, from harps 
Above all number, eloquent and sweet. 
Above all thought of melody conceived. 
And now behold the fair inhabitants. 



Delightful siglit ! from numerous business turn, 
And round and round through all the extent of 

bliss 
Towards the temple of Jehovah bow. 
And worship reverently before his face ! 

Pursuits are various here, suiting all tastes, 
Though holy all, and glorifying God. 
Ob-serve yon band pursue the sylvan stream: 
Mounting among the clifi^s, they pull the flower, 
Springing as soon as pulled, and, marvelling, pry 
Into its veins, and circulating blood. 
And wondrous mimicry of higher life ; 
Admire its colours, fragrance, gentle shape ; 
And thence admire the God who made it so — 
So simple, complex, and so beautiful. 

Behold yon other band, in airy robes 
Of bliss. They weave the sacred bower of rose 
And myrtle shade, and shadowy verdant bay, 
And laurel, towering high; and round their song, 
Tlie pink and lily bring, and amaranth. 
Narcissus sweet, and jessamine ; and bring 
The clustering vine, stopping with flower and fruit, 
The peach and orange, and the sparkling stream, 
Warbling with nectar to their lips unasked ; 
And talk the while of everlasting love. 

On yonder hill, behold another band, 
Of piercing, steady, intellectual eye. 
And spacious forehead of sublimest thought. 
They reason deep of present, future, past; 
And trace effect to cause ; and meditate 
On the eternal laws of God, which bind 
Circumference to centre; and survey, 
With optic tubes, that fetch remotest stars 
Near them, the systems circling round immense 
Innumerous. See how, — as he, the sage, 
Among the most renowned in days of Time, 
Renowned for large, capacious, holy soul, 
Demonstrates clearly motion, gravity. 
Attraction, and repulsion, still opposed ; 
And dips into the deep, original, 
Unknown, mysterious elements of things, — 
See how the face of every auditor 
Expands with admiration of the skill. 
Omnipotence, and boundless love of God ! 

These other, sitting near the tree of life, 
In robes of linen flowing white and clean, 
Of holiest aspect, ofdivinest soul. 
Angels and men, — into the glory look 
Of the Redeeming Love, and turn the leaves 
Of man's redemption o'er, the secret leaves, 
Which none on earth were found worthy to open, 
And, as they read the mysteries divine. 
The endless mysteries of salvation, wrought 
By God's incarnate Son, they humbler bow 
Before the Lamb, and glow with warmer love. 

These other, there relaxed beneath the shade 
Of yon embowering palms, with friendship smile, 
And talk of ancient days, and young pursuits, 
Of dangers passed, of godly triumphs won; 



46 



THE COURSE OP TIME. 



And sing the legends of their native land, 
Less pleasing far than this their Father's house. 

Behold that other band, half lifted up 
Between the hill and dale, reclined beneath 
The shadow of impending rocks, 'mong streams. 
And thundering waterfalls, and waving boughs ; 
That band of countenance sublime and sweet, 
Whose eye, with piercing, intellectual ray, 
Now beams severe, or now bewildered seems, 
Left rolling wild, or fixed in idle gaze, 
While Fancy and the Soul are far from home ; 
These hold the pencil, art divine ! and throw 
Before the eye remembered scenes of love ; 
Each picturing to each the hills, and skies, 
And treasured stories of the world he left ; 
Or, gazing on the scenery of heaven, 
They dip their hand in colour's native well, 
And, on the everlasting canvas, dash 
Figures of glory, imagery divine, 
With grace and grandeur in perfection knit. 

But, whatsoe'er these spirits blessed pursufe, 
Where'er they go, whatever sights they see 
Of glory and bliss through all the tracts of heaven 
The centre, still, the figure eminent. 
Whither they ever turn, on whom all eyes 
Repose with infinite delight, is God, 
And his incarnate Son, the Lamb once slain 
On Calvary, to ransom ruined men. 

None idle here. Look where thou wilt, they all 
Are active, all engaged in meet pursuit ; 
Not happy else. Hence is it that the song 
Of heaven is ever new ; for daily thus. 
And nightly, new discoveries are made 
Of God's unbounded wisdom, power, and love. 
Which give the understanding larger room. 
And swell the hymn with ever-growing praise. 

Behold, they cease ! and every face to God 
Turns ; and we pause from high poetic theme. 
Not worthy least of being sung in heaven ; 
And on unvailed Godhead look from this, 
Our oft-frequented hill. He takes the harp, 
Nor needs to seek befitting phrase : unsought. 
Numbers harmonious roll along the lyre ; 
As river in its native bed, they flow 
Spontaneous, flowing with the tide of thought. 
He takes the harp — a bard of Judah leads, 
This night, the boundless song, the bard that once, 
When Israel's king was sad and sick to death, 
A message brought of fifteen added years. 
Before the Throne he stands sublime, in robes 
Of glory; and now his fingers wake the chords 
To praise, which we and all in heaven repeat. 

Harps of Eternity ! begin the song. 
Redeemed and angel harps ! begin to God, 
Begin the anthem ever sweet and new, 
While I extol Him, holy, just, and good. 
Life, beauty, light, intelligence, and love 
Eternal, uncreated, infinite ! 
Unsearchable Jehovah ! God of truth, 



Maker, upholder, governor of all ! 
Thyself unmade, ungoverned, unupheld ! 
Omnipotent, unchangeable. Great God ! 
Exhaustless fulness ! giving unimpaired ! 
Bounding immensity, unspread, unbound ! 
Highest and best ! beginning, middle, end ! 
All-seeing Eye ! all-seeing, and unseen ! 
Hearing, unheard ! all-knowing, and unknown ! 
Above all praise ! above all height of thought ! 
Proprietor of immortality ! 
Glory ineffable ! bhss underived ! 
Of old thou iuiltst thy throne on righteousness, 
Before the morning Stars their song began, 
Or silence heard the voice of praise. Thou laidst 
Eternity's foundation stone, and sawst 
Life and existence out of Thee begin. 
Mysterious more, the more displayed, where still 
Upon thy glorious Throne thou sitst alone, 
Hast sat alone, and shalt forever sit 
Alone, Invisible, Immortal One ! 
Behind essential brightness unbeheld. 
Incomprehensible ! what weight shall weigh, 
What measure measure Thee ! What know we 

more 
Of Thee, what need to know, than Thou hast 

taught. 
And bidst us still repeat, at morn and even 1 — 
God ! Everlasting Father ! Holy One ! 
Our God, our Father, our Eternal All ! 
Source whence we came, and whither we return ; 
Who made our spirits, who our bodies made. 
Who made the heaven, who made the flowery land, 
Who made all made, who orders, governs all. 
Who walks upon the wind, who holds the wave 
In hollow of thy hand, whom thunders wait, 
Whom tempests serve, whom flaming fires obey, 
Who guides the circuit of the endless years. 
And sitst on high, and makest creation's top 
Thy footstool, and beholdst, below Thee, all — 
All nought, all less than nought, and vanity. 
Like transient dust that hovers on the scale. 
Ten thousand worlds are scattered in thy breath. 
Thou sitst on high, and measurest destinies. 
And days, and months, and wide- revolving years ; 
And dost according to thy holy will ; 
And none can stay thy hand, and none withhold 
Thy glory; for in judgment. Thou, as well 
As mercy, art exalted, day and night. 
Past, present, future, magnify thy name. 
Thy works all praise Thee, all thy angels praise. 
Thy saints adore, and on thy altars burn 
The fragrant incense of perpetual love. 
They praise Thee now, their hearts, their voices 

praise. 
And swell the rapture of the glorious song. 
Harp ! lift thy voice on high ! shout, angels, shout ! 
And loudest, ye redeemed! glory to God, 
And to the Lamb who bought us with his blood, 
From every kindred, nation, people, tongue ; 



BOOK VII. 



47 



And washed, and sanctified, and saved our souls; 
And gave us robes of linen pure, and crowns , 
Of life, and made us kings and priests to God. 
Shout back to ancient Time! Sing loud, and wave 
Your palms of triumph ! sing, Where is thy sting, 
O Death ! where is thy victory, O Grave ! 
Thanks be to God, eternal thanks, who gave 
Us victory through Jesus Christ, our Lord. 
Harp! hft thy voice on high! shout, angels, shout! 
And loudest, ye redeemed! glory to God, 
And to the Lamb, all glory and all praise. 
All glory and all praise, at morn and even, 
That come and go eternallj^, and find 
Us happy still, and Thee for ever blessed ! 
Glory to God and to the Lamb. Amen. 
For ever, and for evermore. Amen. 

And those who stood upon the sea of glass, 
And those who stood upon the battlements 
And lofty towers of New Jerusalem, 
And those who circling stood, bowing afar, 
Exalted on the everlasting hills, 
Thousands of Thousands, thousands infinite. 
With voice of boundless love, answered. Amen. 
And through Eternity near, and remote, 
The worlds, adoring, echoed back. Amen, 
And God the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost, 
The One Eternal, smiled superior bliss ! 
And every ej'e, and ev(Ty face in heaven, 
Reflecting and reflected, beamed with love. 

Nor did he not, the Virtue new arrived. 
From Godhead gain an individual smile. 
Of high acceptance, and of welcome high, 
And confirmation evermore in good. 
Meantime the landscape glowed with holy joy. 
Zephyr, with wing dipped from the well of life, 
Sporting through Paradise, and living dews ; 
The flowers, the spicy shrubs, the lawn, refreshed. 
Breathed their selectest balm, breathed odours, such 
As angels love ; and all the trees of heaven, 
The cedar, pine, and everlasting oak. 
Rejoicing on the mountains, clapped their hands. 



BOOK VII. 

As one who meditates at evening tide, 
Wandering alone by voiceless solitudes, 
And flies in fancy, far beyond the bounds 
Of visible and vulgar things, and things 
Discovered hitherto, pursuing tracts 
As yet untravelled and unknown, through vast 
Of new and sweet imaginings ; if chance 
Some airy harp, waked by the gentle sprites 
Of twilight, or light touch of sylvan maid, 
In soft succession fall upon his car. 
And fill the desert with its heavenly tones ; 
He listens intense, and pleased exceedingly, 
And wishes it may never stop ; yet when 



It stops, grieves not; but to his former thoughts 
With fondest haste returns : so did the Seer, 
So did his audience, after worship passed. 
And praise in heaven, return to sing, to hear 
Of man, not worthy less the sacred lyre. 
Or the attentive ear ; and thus the bard, 
Not unbesought, again resumed his song. 

In customed glory briglit, that morn, the Sun 
Rose, visiting the earth witli liglat, and heat. 
And joy; and seemed as full of youtli and strong 
To mount the steep of heaven, as when the Stars 
Of morning sung to his first dawn, and niglit 
Fled from his face ; the spacious sky received 
Him, blushing as a bride, when on her looked 
The bridegroom; and, spread out beneath his eye, 
Earth smiled. Up to his warm embrace, the Dews, 
That all night long had wept his absence, flew. 
The herbs and flowers their fragrant stores un- 
locked, 
And gave the wanton breeze that, newly woke. 
Revelled in sweets, and from its wings shook health, 
A thousand grateful smells ; the joyous woods 
Dried in his beams their locks, wet with the drops 
Of night; and all the sons of music sung 
Their matin song — from arboured bower, the thrush, 
Concerting with the lark that hymned on high. 
On the green hill tiie flocks, and in the vale 
The herds, rejoiced; and, light of heart, the hind 
Eyed amorously the milk-maid as she passed, 
Not heedless, though she looked another way. 

No sign was there of change. All nature moved 
In wonted harmony. Men, as they met, 
In morning salutation, praised the day. 
And talked of common things. The husbandrnan 
Prepared the soil, and silver-tongued Hope 
Promised another harvest. In the streets, 
Each wishing to make profit of his neighbour, 
Merchants, assembling, spoke of trying times, 
Of bankruptcies, and markets glutted full; 
Or, crowding to the beach, where, to their ear, 
The oath of foreign accent, and the noise 
Uncouth of trade's rough sons, made music sweet, 
Elate with certain gain, — beheld the bark, 
Expected long, enriched with other cUmes, 
Into the harbour safely steer; or saw. 
Parting with many a weeping farewell sad. 
And blessing uttered rude, and sacred pledge, 
The rich laden carack, bound to distant shore, 
And hopefully talked of her coming back. 
With richer fraught ; or sitting at the desk. 
In calculation deep and intricate 
Of loss and profit balancing, relieved. 
At intervals, the irksome task, with thought 
Of future ease, retired in villa snug. 

With subtle look, amid his parchments, sat 
The lawyer, weaving his sophistries for court 
To meet at mid-day. On his weary couch, 
Fat Luxury, sick of the night's debauch. 
Lay groaning, fretful at the obtrusive beam, 



48 



THE COURSE OP TIME. 



That through his lattice peeped derisively. 

The restless miser had begun again 

To count his heaps. Before her toilet stood 

The fair, and, as with guileful skill she decked 

Her loveliness, thought of the coming ball, 

New lovers, or the sweeter nuptial night, 

And evil men, of desperate, lawless hfe, 

By oath of deep damnation leagued to ill 

Remorselessly, fled from the face of day, 

Against the innocent their counsel held, 

Plotting unpardonable deeds of blood, 

And villanies of fearful magnitude. 

Despots, secure behind a thousand bolts 

The workmanship of fear, forged chains for man. 

Senates were meeting, statesmen loudly talked 

Of national resources, war and peace, 

And sagely balanced empires soon to end ; 

And faction's jaded minions, by the page 

Paid for abuse and oft-repeated lies, 

In daily prints, the thorough-fare of news. 

For party schemes made interest, under cloak 

Of liberty, and right, and public weal. 

In holy conclave, bishops spoke of tithes, 

And of the awful wickedness of men. 

Intoxicate with sceptres, diadems, 

And universal rule, and panting hard 

For fame, heroes were leading on the brave 

To battle. Men, in science deeply read, 

And academic theory, foretold 

Improvements vast ; and learned sceptics proved 

That earth should with eternity endure — 

Concluding madly, that there was no God. 

No sign of change appeared : to every man 
That day seemed as the past. From noontide path 
The sun looked gloriously on earth, and all 
Her scenes of giddy foil}!- smiled secure, 
When suddenly, alas, fair Earth ! the sun 
Was wrapped in darkness, and his beams returned 
TJp to the throne of God, and over all 
The earth came night, moonless and starless night. 
Nature stood still. The seas and rivers stood. 
And all the winds, and every living thing. 
The cataract, that, like a giant wroth, 
Rushed down impetuously, as seized, at once, 
By sudden frost, with all his hoary locks. 
Stood still ; and beasts of every kind stood still. 
A deep and dreadful silence reigned alone ! 
Hope died in every breast, and on all men 
Came fear and trembling. None to his neighbour 

spoke. 
Husband thought not of vnfe, nor of her child 
The mother, nor friend of firiend, nor foe of foe. 
In horrible suspense all mortals stood ; 
And, as they stood and listened, chariots were 

heard, 
RolUng in heaven. Revealed in ilaming fire, 
The angel of God appeared in stature vast, 
Blazing, and lifting up his hand on high, 
Bv him that lives for ever, swore, that Time 



Should be no more. Throughout, creation heard 
And sighed ; all rivers, lakes, and seas, and woods, 
Desponding waste, and cultivated vale. 
Wild cave, and ancient hill, and every rock, 
Sighed. Earth, arrested in her wonted path, 
As ox struck by the lifted axe, when nought 
Was feared, in all her entrails deeply groaned. 
A universal crash was heard, as if 
The ribs of Nature broke, and all her dark 
Foundations failed ; and deadly paleness sat 
On every face of man, and every heart 
Grew chill, and every knee his fellow smote. 
None spoke, none stirred, none wept ; for horror 

held 
All motionless, and fettered every tongue. 
Again, o'er all the nations silence fell : 
And, in the heavens, robed in excessive light, 
That drove the thick of darkness far aside. 
And walked with penetration keen, through all 
The abodes of men, another angel stood. 
And blew the trump of God : Awake, ye dead, 
Be changed, ye living, and put on the garb 
Of immortality. Awake, arise! — 
The God of judgment comes ! This said the voice, 
And Silence, from eternity that slept 
Beyond the sphere of the creating Word, 
And all the noise of Time, awakened heard. 
Heaven heard, and earth, and farthest hell, throucrh 

all 
Her regions of despair ; the ear of Death 
Heard, and the sleep that for so long a night 
Pressed on his leaden eyelids, fled ; and all 
The dead awoke, and all the living changed. 

Old men, that on their staff, bending, had leaned,* 
Crazy and frail, or sat, benumbed with age, 
In weary listlessness, ripe for the grave, 
Felt through their sluggish veins and withered 

limbs 
New vigour flow ; the wrinkled face grew smooth; 
Upon the head, that Time had razored bare. 
Rose bushy locks ; and as his son in prime 
Of strength and youth, the aged father stood. 
Changing herself, the mother saw her son 
Grow up, and suddenly put on the form 
Of manhood; and the wretch, that begging sat, 
Limbless, deformed, at corner of the way. 
Unmindful of his crutch, in joint and limb. 
Arose complete ; and he, that on the bed 
Of mortal sickness, worn with sore distress, 
Lay breathing forth his soul to death, felt now 
The tide of life and vigour rushing back; 
And, looking up, beheld his weeping wife. 
And daughter fond, that o'er him, bending, stooped 
To close his eyes. The frantic madman, too, 
In whose confused brain reason had lost 
Her way, long driven at random to and fro. 
Grew sober, and his manacles fell oflf. 
The newly-sheeted corpse arose, and stored 
On those who dressed it ; and the coffined dead, 



^ 



BOOK VII. 



49 



That men were bearing to the tomb, awoke, 
And mingled with their friends; and armies, which 
The trump surprised, met in the furious shock 
Of battle, saw the bleeding ranks, new fallen, 
Rise up at once, and to their ghastly cheeks 
Return the stream of life in healthy flow ; 
And as the anatomist, with all his band 
Of rude disciples, o'er the subject hung, 
And impolitely hewed his way, through bones 
And muscles of the sacred human form, 
Exposing barbarously to wanton gaze, 
The mysteries of nature, joint embraced 
His kindred joint, the wounded flesh grew up, 
And suddenly thQ»injured man awoke, 
Among their hands, and stood arrayed complete 
In immortality — forgiving scarce 
The insult offered to his clay in death. 

That was the hour, long wished for by the good. 
Of universal Jubilee to all 
The sons of bondage : from the oppressor's hand 
The scourge of violence fell, and from his back, 
Healed of its stripes, the burden of the slave. 

The youth of great religious soul, who sat 
Retired in voluntary loneliness. 
In reverie extravagant now wrapped, 
Or poring now on book of ancient date. 
With filial awe, and dipping oft his pen 
To write immortal things ; to pleasure deaf. 
And joys of common men, working his way 
"With mighty energy, not uninspired. 
Through all the mines of thought; reckless of pain, 
And weariness, and wasted health, the scoff 
Of Pride, or growl of Envy's hellish brood; 
While Fancy, voyaged far beyond the bounds 
Of years revealed, heard many a future age. 
With commendation loud, repeat his name, — 
False prophetess ! the day of change was come, — 
Behind the shadow of eternity, 
He saw his visions set of earthly fame. 
For ever set ; nor sighed, while through his veins. 
In lighter current, ran mimortal life ; 
His form renewed to undecaying health ; 
To undecaying health, his soul, erewhile 
Not tuned amiss to God's eternal praise. 

All men in field and city, by the way, 
On land or sea, lolling in gorgeous hall, 
Or plying at the oar ; crawhng in rags 
Obscure, or dazzling in embroidered gold. 
Alone, in companies, at home, abroad ; 
In wanton merriment surprised and taken, 
Or kneeling reverently in act of prayer ; 
Or cursing recklessly, or uttering lies ; 
Or lapping greedily, from slander's cup, 
The blood of reputation ; or between 
Friendships and brotherhoods devising strife ; 
Or plotting to defile a neighbour's bed ; 
In duel met with dagger of revenge ; 
Or casting, on the widow's heritage. 
The eye of covetousness ; or, with full hand, 



On mercy's noiseless errands, unobserved, 
Administering ; or meditating fraud 
And deeds of horrid barbarous intent ; 
In full pursuit of unexperienced hope, 
Fluttering along the flowery path of youth; 
Or steeped in disappointment's bitterness. 
The fevered cup that guilt must ever drink. 
When parched and fainting on the road of ill; 
Beggar and king, the clown and haughty lord ; 
The venerable sage, and empty fop; 
The ancient matron, and the rosy bride ; 
The virgin chaste, and shriveled harlot vile ; 
The savage fierce, and man of science, mild; 
The good and evil, in a moment, all 
Were changed, corruptible to incorrupt, 
And mortal to immortal, ne'er to change. 

And now, descending from the bowers of heaven, 
Soft airs o'er all the earth, spreading, were heard, 
And Hallelujahs sweet, the harmony 
Of righteous souls that came to repossess 
Their long-neglected bodies ; and anon 
Upon the ear fell horribly the sound 
Of cursing, and the yells of damned despair. 
Uttered by felon spirits, that the trump 
Had summoned from the burning glooms of hell 
To put their bodies on, reserved for wo. 

Now, starting up among the living changed, 
Appeared innumerous the risen dead. 
Each particle of dust was claimed ; the turf, 
For ages trod beneath the careless foot 
Of men, rose, organized in human form ; 
The monumental stones were roiled away; 
The doors of death were opened ; and in the dark 
And loathsome vault, and silent charnel house. 
Moving, were heard the mouldered bones that 

sought 
Their proper place. Instinctive, every soul 
Flew to its clayey part : from grass-grown mould. 
The nameless spirit took its ashes up. 
Reanimate ; and, merging from beneath 
The flattered marble, undistinguished rose 
The great, nor heeded once the lavish rhyme, 
And costly pomp of sculptured garnish vain. 
The Memphian mummy, that from age to age, 
Descending, bought and sold a thousand timesj 
In hall of curious antiquary stowed. 
Wrapped in mysterious weeds, the wondrous 

theme 
Of many an erring tale, shook off its rags; 
And the brown son of Egypt stood beside 
The European, his last purchaser. 
In vale remote, the hermit rose, surprised 
At crowds that rose around Mm, where he thought 
His slumbers had been single ; and the bard. 
Who fondly covenanted with his friend, 
To lay his bones beneath the sighing bough 
Of some old lonely tree, rising, was pressed 
By multitudes that claimAl their proper dust. 
From the same spot ; and he, that, richly hearsed, 



50 



THE COURSE OP TIME. 



With gloomy garniture of purchased wo, 
Embalmed, in princely sepulchre was laid, 
Apart from vulgar men, built nicely round 
And round by the proud heir, who blushed to 

think 
His father's lordly clay should ever mix 
With peasant dust, — saw by his side awake 
The clown that long had slumbered in his arms. 

The family tomb, to whose devouring mouth 
Descended sire and son, age after age. 
In long, unbroken, hereditary line. 
Poured forth, at once, the ancient father rude, 
And all his offspring of a thousand years. 
Refreshed from sweet repose, awoke the man 
Of charitable life — awoke and sung : 
And from his prison house, slowly and sad, 
As if unsatisfied with holding near 
Communion with the earth, the miser drew 
His carcass forth, and gnashed his teeth, and 

howled 
Unsolaced by his gold and silver then. 
From simple stone in lonely wilderness, 
That hoary lay, o'er-lettered by the hand 
Of ojft-frequenting pilgrim, who had taught 
The willow tree to weep, at morn and even, 
Over the sacred spot, — the martyr saint. 
To song of seraph harp, triumphant, rose, 
Well pleased that he had suffered to the death. 
" The cloud-clapped towers, the gorgeous palaces," 
As sung the bard by Nature's hand anointed, 
In whose capacious giant numbers rolled 
The passions of old Time, fell lumbering down. 
AH cities fell, and every work of man. 
And gave their portion forth of human dust. 
Touched by the mortal finger of decay. 
Tree, herb, and flower, and every fowl of heaven. 
And fish, and animal, the wild and tame. 
Forthwith dissolving, crumbled into dust. 

Alas! ye sons of strength, ye ancient oaks, 
Ye holy pines, ye elms, and cedars tall. 
Like towers of God, far seen on Carmel mount. 
Or Lebanon, that waved your boughs on high. 
And laughed at all the winds, — your hour was 

come! 
Ye laurels, ever green, and bays, that wont 
To wreath the patriot and the poet's brow; 
Ye myrtle bowers, and groves of sacred shade, 
Where music ever sung, and Zephyr fanned 
His airy wing, wet with the dews of life. 
And Spring for ever smiled, the fragrant haunt 
Of Love, and Health, and ever-dancing Mirth, — 
Alas! how suddenly your verdure died. 
And ceased your minstrelsy, to sing no more ! 
Ye flowers of beauty, penciled by the hand 
Of God, who annually renewed your birth. 
To gem the virgin robes of Nature chaste, 
Ye smiling-featured daughters of the Sun I 
Fairer than queenly bridfe, by Jordan's stream 
Leading your gentle lives, retired, unseen ; 



Or on the sainted cliffs on Zion hill 
Wandering, and holding with the heavenly dews, 
In holy revelry, your nightly loves. 
Watched by the stars, and offering, every morn, 
Your incense grateful both to God and man ; — 
Ye lovely gentle things, alas ! no spring 
Shall ever wake you now! ye withered all, 
All in a moment drooped, and on your roots 
The grasp of everlasting winter seized! 
Children of song, ye birds that dwelt in air. 
And stole your notes from angels' lyres, and first 
In levee of the morn, with eulogy 
Ascending, hailed the advent of the dawn ; 
Or, roosted on the pensive eveni«g bough, 
In melancholy numbers, sung the day 
To rest; — your little wings, faiUng, dissolved, 
In middle air, and on your harmony 
Perpetual silence fell ! Nor did his wing. 
That sailed in track of gods sublime, and fanned 
The sun, avail the eagle then ; quick smitten, 
His plumage withered in meridian height, 
And, in the valley, sunk the lordly bird, 
A clod of clay. Before the ploughman fell 
His steers, and in midway the furrow left. 
The shepherd saw his flocks around him turn 
To dust. Beneath his rider fell the steed 
To ruins : and the lion in his den 
Grew cold and stiff, or in the furious chase, 
With timid fawn, that scarcely missed his paws. 
On earth no living thing was seen but men, 
New-changed, or rising from the opening tomb; 
Athens, and Rome, and Babylon, and Tyre, 
And she that sat on Thames, queen of the seas. 
Cities once famed on earth, convulsed through aU 
Their mighty ruins, threw their millions forth. 
Palmyra's dead, where Desolation sat. 
From age to age, well pleased in solitude. 
And silence, save when traveller's foot, or owl 
Of night, or fragment mouldering down to dust. 
Broke faintly on his desert ear, — awoke. 
And Salem, holy city, where the Prince 
Of Life, by death, a second life secured 
To man, and with him, from the grave, redeemed, 
A chosen number brought, to retinue 
His great ascent on high, and give sure pledge. 
That death was foiled, — her generations now. 
Gave up, of kings and priests, and Pharisees: 
Nor even the Sadducee, who fondly said. 
No morn of resurrection e'er should come. 
Could sit the summons ; to his ear did reach 
The trumpet's voice, and, ill prepared for what 
He oft had proved should never be, he rose 
Reluctantly, and on his face began 
To burn eternal shame. The cities, too. 
Of old ensepulchred beneath the flood, 
Or deeply elumbering under mountains huge, 
That Earthquake, servant of the wrath of God, 
Had on their wicked population thrown ; 
And marts of busy trade, long ploughed and sown, 



BOOK VII. 



51 



By history unrecorded, or the song 
Of bard, yet not forgotten their wickedness, 
In heaven ; — poured forth their ancient multitudes, 
That vainly wished their sleep had never broke. 
From battle-fields, where men by millions met 
To murder each his fellow, and make sport 
To kings and heroes, things long since forgot, 
Innumerous armies rose, unbannered all, 
Unpanoplied, unpraised ; nor found a ])rince, 
Or general then, to answer for their crimes. 
The hero's slaves, and all the scarlet troops 
Of antichrist, and all that fought for rule, — 
Many high-sounding names, familiar once 
On earth, and praised exceedingly, but now 
Familiar most in hell, their dungeon fit, 
Where they may war eternally with God's 
Almighty thunderbolts, and win them pangs 
Of keener wo,— saw, as they sprung to life, 
The widow and the orphan ready stand. 
And helpless virgin, ravished in their sport. 
To plead against them at the coming Doom. 
The Roman legions, boasting once, how loud ! 
Of liberty, and fighting bravely o'er 
The torrid and the frigid zone, the sands 
Of burning Egypt, and the frozen hills 
Of snowy Albion, to make mankind 
Their thralls, untaught that he who made or kept 
A slave could ne'er himself be truly free, — 
That morning, gathered up their dust, which lay 
Wide-scattered over half the globe ; nor saw 
Their eagled banners then. Sennacherib's hosts. 
Embattled once against the sons of God, • 
With insult bold, quick as the noise of mirth 
And revelry, sunk in their drunken camp. 
When death's dark angel, at the dead of night. 
Their vitals touched, and made each pulse stand 

still,— 
Awoke in sorrow; and the multitudes 
Of Gog, and all the fated crew that warred 
Against the chosen saints, in the last days. 
At Armageddon, when the Lord came down, 
Mustering his host on Israel's holy hills. 
And, from the treasures of his snow and hail, 
Rained terror, and confusion rained, and death. 
And gave to ail the beasts, and fowls of heaven. 
Of captains' flesh, and blood of men of war, 
A feast of many days, — revived, and, doomed 
To second death, stood in Hamonah's vale. 

Nor yet did all that fell in battle rise, 
That day, to wailing. Here and there were seen 
The patriot bands that from his guilty throne 
The despot tore, unshackled nations, made 
The prince respect the people's laws, drove back 
The wave of proud invasion, and rebuked 
The frantic fury of the multitude. 
Rebelled, and fought and fell for liberty 
Right understood, true heroes in the speech 
Of heaven, where words express tiic thoughtB of 
him 



Who speaks; not undistinguished these, though 

few. 
That morn, arose, with joy and melody. 

All wcjie — the north and south gave up their 
dead. 
The cara\w.n, that in mid-journey sunk, 
With all its merchandise, expected long. 
And long forgot, ingulfed beneath the tide 
Of deatli, that the wild Spirit of the winds 
Swept, in his wrath, along the wilderness, 
In the wide desert, — woke, and saw all calm 
Around, and populous with risen men: 
Nor of his relics thought the pilgrim then, 
Nor merchant of his silks and spiceries. 

And he, far voyaging frpm home and friends, 
Too curious, with a mortal eye to peep 
Into the secrets of the Pole, forbid 
By nature, whom fierce Winter seized, and froze 
To death, and v^^rapped in winding sheet of ice, 
And sung the requiem of his shivering ghost, 
With the loud organ of his mighty winds, 
And on his memory threw the snow of ages, 
Felt the long-absent warmth of life return, 
And shook the frozen mountain from his bed. 

All rose, of every age, of every clime. 
Adam and Eve, the great progenitors 
Of all-mankind, fair as they seemed, that mom, 
When first they met in Paradise, unfallen, 
Uncursed, — from ancient slumber broke, where 

once 
Euphrates rolled his stream ; and by them stood, 
In stature equal, and in soul as large, 
Their last posterity, though poets sung, 
And sages proved them far degenerate. 

Blessed sight! not unobserved by angels, nor 
Unpraised, — that day, 'mong men of every tribe 
And hue, from those who drank of Tenglio's stream, 
To those who nightly saw the Hermit Cross, 
In utmost south retired, — ri.sing, were seen 
The fair and ruddy sons of Albion's land. 
How glad ! — not those who travelled far and sailed, 
To purchase human flesh, or wreath the yoke 
Of vassalage on savage liberty. 
Or suck large fortune from the sweat of slaves ; 
Or, wdth refined knavery, to cheat, 
Politely villanous, untutored men 
Out of their property ; or gather sheila, 
Intaglios rude, old pottery, and store 
Of mutilated gotls of stone, and scraps 
Of barbarous epitaphs defaced, to be 
Among the learned the theme of warm debate. 
And infinite conjecture, sagely wrong ! — 
But those, denied to self, to earthly fame 
Denied, and earthly wealth ; who kindred left, 
And home, and ease, and all the cultured joys, 
Convemenccs, and delicate delights, 
Of ripe society; in the great cause 
Of man's salvation, greatly valorous, — 
The warriorE of Messiah, messengers 



52 



THE COURSE OF TIME, 



Of peace, and light, and life, whose eye, unsealed, 
Saw up the path of immortahty, 
Far into bliss, saw men, immortal men, 
Wide wandering from the way; eclipsed ii» night, 
Dark, moonless, moral night ; living like beasts, 
Like beasts descending to the grave, untEfught 
Of life to come, unsanctified, unsaved ; 
Who, strong, though seeming weak; who, war- 
like, though 
Unarmed with bow and sword ; appearing mad. 
Though sounder than the schools alone e'er made 
The doctor's head ; devote to God and truth, 
And sworn to man's eternal weal, beyond 
Repentance sworn, or thought of turning back 
And casting far behind all earthly care, 
All countryships, all national regards. 
And enmities, all narrow bourns of state 
And selfish policy ; beneath their feet 
Treading all fear of opposition down. 
All fear of danger, of reproach all fear, 
And evil tongues; — went forth, from Britain went 
A noiseless band of heavenly soldiery. 
From out the armoury of God equipped. 
Invincible, to conquer sin, to blow 
The trump of freedom iri. the despot's ear, 
To tell the bruted slave his manhood high. 
His birthright liberty, and in his hand 
To put the writ of manumission, signed • 
By God's own signature ; to drive away 
From earth the dark, infernal legionary 
Of superstition, ignorance, and hell ; 
High on the pagan hills, where Satan sat, 
Encamped, and o'er the subject kingdoms threw 
Perpetual night, to plant Immanuel's cross. 
The ensign of the Gospel, blazing round 
Immortal truth ; and, in the wilderness 
Of human waste, to sow eternal life; 
And from the rock, where Sin, with horrid yell, 
Devoured its victims unredeemed, to raise 
The melody of grateful hearts to Heaven : 
To falsehood, truth; to pride, humility; 
To insult, meekness ; pardon, to revenge ; 
To stubborn prejudice, unwearied zeal ; 
To censure, unaccusing minds ; to stripes, 
Long suffering ; to want of all things, hope ; 
To death, assured faith of life to come ; — 
Opposing. These, great worthies, rising, shone 
Through all the tribes and nations of mankind, 
Like Hesper, glorious once among the stars 
Of twilight, and around them, flocking, stood, 
Arrayed in white, the people they had saved. 

Great Ocean ! too, that morning, thou the call 
Of restitution heardst, and reverently 
To the last trumpet's voice, in silence, listened. 
Great Ocean ! strongest of creation's sons. 
Unconquerable, unreposed, untired, 
That rolled the wild, profound, eternal bass. 
In Nature's anthem, and made music, such 
As pleassed the ear of God 1 original, 



Unmarred, unfadcd work of Deity, 

And unburlesqued by mortal's puny skill. 

From age to age enduring and unchanged, 

Majestical, inimitable, vast. 

Loud uttering satire, day and night, on each 

Succeeding race, and little pompous work 

Of man ! — unfalfen, religious, holy Sea ! 

Thou bowedst thy g)orioas head to none, fearedst 

none, 
Heardst none, to none didst honour, but to God 
Thy Maker, only worthy to receive 
Thy great obeisance ! Undiscovered Sea ! 
Into thy dark, unknown, mysterious caves, 
And secret haunts, unfathomably deep, 
Beneath all visible retired, none went. 
And came again, to tell the wonders there. 
Tremendous Seal what time thou lifted up 
Thy waves on high, and with thy winds and storms 
Strange pastime took, and shook thy mighty sides 
Indignantly, — the pride of navies fell ; 
Beyond the arm of help, unheard, unseen, 
Sunk friend and foe, with all their wealth and war; 
And on thy shores, men. of a thousand tribes, 
Polite and barbarous, trembling stood, amazed, 
Confounded, terrified, and thought vast thoughts 
Of ruin, boundlessness, omnipotence, 
Infinitude, eternity; and thought 
And wondered still, and grasped, and grasped, and 

grasped 
Again ; beyond her reach, exerting all 
The soul, to take thy great idea in, 
To comprfehend incomprehensible ; 
And wondered more, and felt their littleness 
Self-purifying, unpolluted Sea! 
Lover unchangeable, thy faithful breast * 
For ever heaving to the lovely Moon, 
That, like a shy and holy virgin, robed 
In saintly white, walked nightly in the heavens, 
And to the everlasting serenade 
Gave gracious audience ; nor was wooed in vain. 
That morning, thou, that slumbered not before, 
Nor slept, great Ocean ! laid thy waves to rest. 
And hushed thy mighty minstrelsy. No breath 
Thy deep composure stirred, no fin, no oar ; 
Like beauty newly dead, so calm, so still. 
So lovely, thou, beneath the light that fell 
From angel-chariots, sentineled on high, 
Reposed, and Hstened, and saw thy living change, 
Thy dead arise. Charybdis listened, and Scyllaj 
And savage Euxine, on the Thracian beach, 
Lay motionless : and every battle-ship 
Stood still, and every ship of merchandise. 
And all that sailed, of every name, stood still. 
Even as the ship of war, full-fledged, and swifl, 
Like some fierce bird of prey, bore on her foe, 
Opposing with as fell intent, the wind 
Fell withered from her wings that idly hung ; 
The stormy bullet, by the cannon tlirown 
Uncivilly against the heavenly face 



BOOK VII. 



53 



Of men, half sped, sunk harmlessly, and all 
Her loud, uncircumcised, tempestuous crew, 
How ill prepared to meet their God ! were changed. 
Unchangeable— the pilot at the helm 
Was changed, and the rough captain, while he 

mouthed 
The huge, enormous oath. The fisherman. 
That in his boat, expectant, watched his lines, 
Or mended on the shore his net, and sung, 
Happy in thoughtlessness, some careless air. 
Heard Time depart, and felt the sudden change. 
In solitary deep, far out from land. 
Or steering from the port with many a cheer. 
Or while returning from long voyage, fraught 
With lusty wealth, rejoicing to have escaped 
The dangerous main, and plagues of foreign 

climes, — 
The merchant quaffed his native air, refreshed ; 
And saw his native hills, in the sun's light, 
Serenely rise; and thought of meetings glad, 
And many days of ease and honour, spent 
Among his friends — unvi-arned man ! even then. 
The knell of Time broke on his reverie, 
And, in the twinkling of an eye, his hopes, 
All earthly, perished ali. As sudden rose, 
From out their watery beds, the Ocean's dead. 
Renewed ; and, on the unstirring billows, stood. 
From {)ole to pole, thick covering all the seii — 
Of every nation blent, and every age. 

Wherever slept one grain of human dust, 
Essential organ of a human soul, 
Wherever tossed, obedient to tlie call 
Of God's omnipotence, it Lurried on 
To meet its fellow particles, revived, 
Rebuilt, in union indestructible. 
No atom of his spoils remained to Death. 
From his strong arm, by stronger arm released. 
Immortal now in soul and i>ody both. 
Beyond bis reach, stood all the sons of men. 
And saw, behind, his valley lie, unfeared. 

O Death! with wliat an eye of desperate lust. 
From out thy cmptiid vaults, thou then didst look 
Ailer tlie risen nmltitu.les of all 
Mankind! Ah ! thou hadst been the terror long. 
And murderer, of all of woman born. 
None could escape t^ieel In thy dungeon house. 
Where darkness dwelt, and putrid loathsomeness. 
And fearful silence, villanously still 
And all of horrible and deadly name, — 
Thou satst, from age to age, insatiate. 
And drank the blood of men, and gorged their 

flesh. 
And with thy iron teeth didst grind their bones 
To powder, treading out, beneath thy feet, 
Their very names and memories. The blood 
Of nations could not slake thy parched throat. 
No bribe could buy thy favour for an hour. 
Or mitigate thy ever-cruel rage 
For human prey. Gold, beauty, virtue, youth, 



Even helpless, swaddled innocency, failed 
To soften thy heart of stone ! the infant's blood 
Pleased well thy taste, and, while the mother wept, 
Bereaved by thee, lonely and waste in wo. 
Thy ever-grinding jaws devoured her too; 

Each son of Adam's family beheld, 
Where'er he turned, whatever path of life 
He trode, thy goblin form before him stand, 
Like trusty old assassin, in his aim 
Steady and sure as eye of destiny. 
With sithe, and dart, and strength invincible, 
Equipped, and ever menacing his life. 
He turned aside, he drowned himself in sleep, 
In wine, in pleasure ; travelled, voyaged, sought 
Receipts for health from all he met ; betook 
To busines.s, speculate, retired; returned 
Affain to active life, again retired; 
Returned, retired again ; prepared to die. 
Talked of thy nothingness, conversed of life 
To come, laughed at his fears, filled up the cup, 
Drank deep, refrained ; filled up, refrained again; 
Planned, built him round with splendour, won ap^ 

plause, 
Made large alliances with men and things. 
Read deep in science and philosophy, 
To fortify his soul ; heard lectures prove 
The i)resent ill, and future good ; observed 
His pulse beat regular, extended hope; 
Thought, dissipated thouglit, and thought again; 
Indulged, abstained, and tried a thousand schemes. 
To ward thy blow, or hide thee from his eye ; 
But still thy gloomy terrors, dipped in sin, 
Before him frowned, and withered ail his joy. 
Still, feared and hated thing ! thy ghostly shape' 
Stood in his avenues of fairest hoiie ; 
Unmannerly and uninvited, crept 
Into his haunts of most select delight. 
Still, on his halls of mirth, and banqueting. 
And revelry, thy shadowy hand was seen 
Writing thy name of— Death. Vile worm, that 

gnawed 
The root of all his happiness terrene, the gall 
Of all his sweet, the thorn of every rose 
Of earthly bloom, cloud of his noon-day sky. 
Frost of his spring, sigh of his loudest laugh,. 
Dark s]iot on every form of loveliness, 
Rank smell amidst his rarest spiceries. 
Harsh dissonance of all his harmony, 
Reserve of every promise, and the if 
Of all to-morrows ! — now, beyond thy vale. 
Stood all the ransomed multitude of men. 
Immortal all : and, in their visions, saw 
Thy visage grim no more. Great payment day I 
Of all thou ever conquered, none was left 
In thy unpeopled realms, so populous once. 
He, at whose girdle hang the keys of death 
And life, not bought but with the blood of Him 
Who wears, the eternal Son of God, that mom, 
Dispelled the cloud that sat so long, so thicU, 



54 



THE COURSE OF TIME. 



So heavy o'er thy vale ; opened all thy doors, 
Unopened before ; and set thy prisoners free. 
Vain was resistance, and to follow vain. 
In thy unveiled caves, and soUtudes 
Of dark and dismal emptiness, thou satst, 
Rolling thy hollow eyes, disabled thing ! 
Helpless, despised, unpitied, and unfeared, 
Like some fallen tyrant, chained in sight of all 
The people ; from thee dropped thy pointless dart, 
Thy terrors withered all, thy ministers, 
Annihilated, fell before thy face. 
And on thy maw eternal Hunger seized. 

Nor yet, sad monster ! wast thou left alone. 
In thy dark den some phantoms still remained, — 
Ambition, Vanity, and earthly Fame, 
Swollen Ostentation, meagre Avarice, 
Mad Superstition, smooth Hypocrisy, 
And Bigotry intolerant, and Fraud, 
And wilful Ignorance, and sullen Pride, 
Hot Controversy, and the subtle ghost 
Of vain Philosophy, and worldly Hope, 
And sweet-lipped, hollow-hearted Flattery. 
All these, great personages once on earth, 
And not unfoUowed, nor unpraised, were left. 
Thy ever-unredeemed, and with thee driven 
To Erebus, through whose uncheered wastes. 
Thou mayest chase them, with thy broken sithe 
Fetching vain strokes, to all eternity, 
Unsatisfied^ as men who, in the days 
Of Time, their unsubstantial forms pursued, 



BOOK VIII. 

Reanimated, now, and dressed in robes 
Of everlasting wear, in the last pause 
Of expectation, stood the human race, 
Buoyant in air, or covering shore and sea, 
From east to west, thick as the eared grain. 
In golden autumn waved, from field to field, 
Profuse, by Nilus' fertile wave, while yet 
Earth was, and men were in her valleys seen. 

Still, all was calm Jn heaven. Nor yet appeared 
The Judge, nor aught appeared, save here and 

there 
On wing of golden plumage borne at will, 
A curious angel, that from out the skies 
Now glanced a look on man, and then retired. 
As calm was all on earth. The ministers 
Of God's unsparing vengeance, waited, still 
Unhid. No sun, no moon, no star, gave light. 
A blessed and holy radiance, travelled far 
From day original, fell on the face ' 
Of men, and every countenance revealed ; 
Unpleasant to the bad, whose visages 
Had lost all guise of seeming happiness. 
With which on earth such pains they took to hide 
Their misery in. On their grim features, now 



The plain, unvisored index of the soul, 

The true, untampered witness of the heart, 

No smile of hope, no look of vanity 

Beseeching for applause, was seen ; no scowl 

Of self-important, all-despising pride, 

That once upon the poor and needy fell, 

Like winter on the unprotected flower. 

Withering their very being to decay. 

No jesting mirth, no wanton leer, was seen, 

No sullen lower of braggart fortitude 

Defying pain, nor anger, nor revenge ; 

But fear instead, and terror, and remorse; 

And chief, one passion, to its answering, shaped 

The features of the damned, and in itself 

Summed all the rest, — unutterable despair. 

What on the righteous shone of foreign light, 
Was all redundant day, they needed not. 
For as, by Nature, Sin is dark, and loves 
The dark, still hiding from itself in gloom, 
And in the darkest hell is still itself 
The darkest hell, and the severest wo, 
Where all is wo; so Virtue, ever fair! 
Doth by a sympathy as strong as binds 
Two equal hearts, well pleased in wedded love. 
For ever seek the light, for ever seek 
All fair and lovely things, all beauteous forms. 
All images of excellence and truth; 
And from her own essential being, pure 
As flows the fount of life that spirits drink, 
Doth to herself give light, nor from her beams, 
As native to her as her ovra existence, • 
Can be divorced, nor of her glory shorn, — 
Which now, from every feature of the just. 
Divinely rayed, yet not from all alike ; 
In measure, equal to the soul's advance 
In virtue, was the lustre of the face. 

It was a strange assembly: none, of all 
That congregation vast, could recollect 
Aught like it in the history of man. 
No badge of outward state was seen, no mark 
Of age, or rank, or national attire. 
Or robe professional, or air of trade. 
Untitled, stood the man that once was called 
My lord, unserved, unfoUowed ; and the man 
Of tithes, right reverend in the dialect 
Of Time addressed, ungowned, unbeneficed, 
Uncorpulent ; nor now, from him who bore, 
With ceremonious gravity of step, 
And face of borrowed holiness o'erlaid, 
The ponderous book before the awful priest. 
And opened and shut the pulpit's sacred gates 
In style of wonderful observancy 
And reverence excessive, in the beams 
Of sacerdotal splendour lost, or if 
Observed, comparison ridiculous scarce 
Could save the little, pompous, humble man 
From laughter of the people, — not from him 
Could be distinguished then the priest untithed. 
None levees held, those marts where princely smiles 



BOOK VIII. 



55 



Were sold for flattery, and obeisance mean, 
Unfit from man to man ; none came or went. 
None wished to draw attention, none was poor, 
None rich, none young, none old,. deformed none ; 
None sought for place or favour, none had aught 
To give, none could receive, none ruled, none 

served 
No king, no subject was; unscutcheoned all. 
Uncrowned, unplumed. unhelmed, unpedigreed, 
Unlaced, uncoroneted, unbestarred. 
Nor countryman was seen, nor citizen ; 
Republican, nor humble advocate 
Of monarchy ; nor idol worshipper, 
Nor beaded papist, nor Mahometan ; 
Episcopalian none, nor presbyter; 
Nor Lutheran, nor Calvinist, nor Jew. 
Nor Greek, nor sectary of any name. 
Nor, of those persons, that loud title bore. 
Most high and mighty, most magnificent. 
Most potent, most august, most worshipful. 
Most eminent, words of great pomp, that pleased 
The ear of vanity, and made the worms 
Of earth mistake themselves for gods, — could one 
Be seen, to claim these phrases obsolete. 

It was a congregation vast of men, 
Of unappendaged and unvarnished men. 
Of plain, unceremonious human beings. 
Of all but moral character bereaved. 
His vice or virtue, now, to each remained. 
Alone. All else, with their grave clothes, men 

had 
Put off, as badges worn by mortal, not 
Immortal man ; alloy that could not pass 
The scrutiny of Death's refining fires ; 
Dust of Time's wheels, by multitudes pursued 
Of fools that shouted — Gold ! fair painted fruit. 
At which the ambitious idiot jumped, while men 
Of wiser mood immortal harvests reaped ; 
Weeds of the human garden, sprung from earth's 
Adulterate soil, unfit to be transplanted, 
Though by the moral botanist, too oft. 
For plants «of heavenly seed mistaken and nursed; 
Mere chaff, that Virtue, when she rose from earth 
And waved her wings to gain her native heights. 
Drove from the verge of being, leaving Vice 
No mask to hide her in ; base-born of Time, 
In which God claimed no property, nor had 
Prepared for them a place in heaven or hell. 
Yet did these vain distinctions, now forgot. 
Bulk largely in the filmy eye of Time, 
And were exceeding fair, and lured to death 
Immortal souls. But they were passed, for all 
Ideal now was passed ; reality 
Alone remained; and good and bad, redeemed 
And unredeemed, distinguished sole the sons 
Of men. Each, to his proper self reduced, 
And iftidisguised, was what his seeming showed. 

The man of earthly fame, whom common men 
Made boast of having seen, who scarce could pass 



The ways of Time, for eager crowds that pressed 
To do him homage, and pursued his ear 
With endless praise, for deeds unpraised above, 
And yoked their brutal natures, honoured much 
To drag his chariot on, — unnoticed stood, 
With none to praise him, none to flatter there. 
Blushing and dumb, that morning, too, was 
seen 
The mighty reasoner, he who deeply searched 
The origin of things, and talked of good 
And evil, much, of causes and effects, 
Of mind and matter, contradicting all 
That went before him, and himself, the while, 
The laughing-stock of angels ; diving far 
Below his depth, to fetch reluctant proof. 
That he himself was mad and wicked too, 
When, proud and ignorant man, he meant to 

prove 
That God had made the universe amiss. 
And sketched a better plan. Ah ! foolish sage ! 
He could not trust the word of Heaven, nor see 
The light which from the Bible blazed, — that lamp 
Which God threw from his palace down to earth, 
To guide his wandering children home, — yet lean- 
ed 
His cautious faith on speculations wild, 
And visionary theories absurd. 
Prodigiously, dehriously absurd. 
Compared with which, the most erroneous flight 
That poet ever took when warm with wine. 
Was moderate conjecturing, he saw, 
Weighed in the balance of eternity, 
His lore how light, and wished, too late, that he 
Had staid at home, and learned to know himself. 
And done, what peasants did. disputed less. 
And more obeyed. Nor less he grieved his time 
Misspent, tlie man of curious research. 
Who travelled flu through lands of hostile clime 
And dangerous inliabitant, to fix 
The bounds of empires passed, and ascertain 
The burial-place of heroes, never born; 
Despising present tilings, and future too, 
And groping in the dark unsearchable 
Of finished years, — by dreary ruins seen. 
And dungeons damp, and vaults of ancient waste, 
With spade and mattock, delving deep to raise 
Old vases and dismembered idols rude; 
With matchless perseverance, spelling out 
Words without sense. Poor man ! he clapped his 

hands. 
Enraptured, when he found a manuscript 
That spoke of pagan gods ; and yet forgot 
The God who made the sea and sky, alas ! 
Forgot that trifling was a sin ; stored much 
Of dubious stufl', but laid no treasure up 
In heaven ; on mouldered columns scratched hii 

name. 
But ne'er inscribed it in the book of life. 
Unprofitable seemed, and unapproved, 



56 



THE COURSE OF TIME. 



That day, the sullen, self-vindictive life 
Of the recluse. With crucifixes hung, 
And spells, and rosaries, and wooden saints, 
Like one of reason reft, he journeyed forth, 
In show of miserable poverty, 
And chose to beg, — as if to live on sweat 
Of other men, had promised great reward; 
On his own flesh inflicted cruel wounds. 
With naked foot embraced the ice, by the hour 
Said mass, and did most grievous penance vile ; 
And then retired to drink the filthy cup 
Of secret wickedness, and fabricate 
All Jying wonders, by the untaught received 
For revelations new. Deluded wretch ! 
Did he not know, that the most Holy One 
Required a cheerful life and holy heart? 

Most disappointed in that crowd of men, 
The man of subtle controversy' stood, 
The bigot theologian, in minute 
Distinctions skilled, and doctruies unreduced 
To practice; in debate how loud I how long! 
How dexterous ! in Christian love how cold! 
His vain conceits were orthodox alone. 
The immutable and heavenly truth, revealed 
By God, was nought to him. He had an art, 
A kind of hellish charm, that made the lips 
Of truth speak falsehood, to his liking turned 
The meaning of the text, made trifles seem 
The marrow of salvation ; to a word, 
A name, a sect, that sounded in the ear, 
And to the eye so many letters showed, 
But did no more, — gave value infinite; 
Proved still his reasoning best, and his belief. 
Though propped on fancies wild as madmen's 

dreams. 
Most rational, most scriptural, most sound ; 
With mortal heresy denouncing all 
Who in his arguments could see no force. 
On points of faith, too fine for human sight, 
And never understood in heaven, he placed 
His everlasting hope, undoubting placed, 
And died; and, when he opened his ear, prepared 
To hear, beyond the grave, the minstrelsy 
Of bliss, he heard, alas! the wail of wo. 
He proved all creeds false but his own, and found 
At last, his own most false — most false, because 
He spent his time to prove all others so. 

O love-destroying, cursed Bigotry! 
Cursed in heaven, but cursed more in hell. 
Where millions curse thee, and must ever curse ! 
Religion's most abhorred ! perdition's most 
Forlorn! God's most- abandoned! hell's most 

damned! 
The infidel, who turned his nnpious war 
Against the walls of Zion, on the rock 
Of ages built, and higher than the clouds, 
Sinned, and received his due reward ; but she 
Within her walls sinned more. Of Ignorance 
Begot, her daughter, Persecution, walked 



The earth, from age to age, and drank the blood 

Of saints, with horrid relish drank the blood 
Of God's peculiar children, and was drunk. 
And in her drunkenness dreamed of doing good. 
The supplicating hand of innocence, "^\ 
That made the tiger mild, and in his wrath 
The lion pause, the groans of suffering most 
Severe, were nought to her; she laughed at 

groans : 
No music pleased her more, and no repast 
So sweet to her, as blood of men redeemed 
By blood of Christ. Ambition's self, though mad, 
And nursed on human gore, with her compared. 
Was merciful. Nor did she always rage. 
She had some hours of meditation, set 
Apart, wherein she to her study went, 
The Inquisition, model most complete 
Of perfect wickedness, where deeds were done. 
Deeds ! let them ne'er be named, — and sat and 

planned 
Deliberately, and with most musing pains, 
How, to extremest thrill of agony. 
The flesh, and blood, and souls of holy men, 
Her victims, might be wrought; and when she 

saw 
New tortures of her labouring fancy born, 
She leaped for joy, and made great haste to try 
Their force — well pleased to hear a deeper groan. 

But now her day of mirth was passed, and come 
Her day to weep, her day of bitter groans, 
And sorrow unbemoaned, the day of grief 
And wrath retributory poured in full 
On all that took her part. The man of sin, ' 
The mystery of iniquity, her friend 
Sincere, who pardoned sin, unpardoned still, 
And in the name of God blasphemed, and did 
AH wicked, all abominable things, 
Most abject stood, that day, by devils hissed. 
And by the looks of those he murdered, scorched; 
And plagued with inward shame, that on his cheek 
Burned, while his votaries, who left the earth, 
Secure of bliss, around him, undeceived, 
Stood, undeceivable till then; and knew 
Too late, him fallible, themselves accursed. 
And all their passports and certificates, 
A lie: nor disappointed more, nor more 
Ashamed, the Mussulman, when he saw, gnash 
His teeth and wail, whom he expected judge. 
All these were damned for bigotry, were damned. 
Because they thought, that they alone served God, 
And servefl him most, when most they disobeyed. 

Of those forlorn and sad, thou mightst have 
marked. 
In number most innumerable, stand 
The indolent ; too lazy these to make 
Inquiry for themselves, they stuck their faith 
To some well-fatted priest, with offerings bribed 
To bring them oracles of peace, and take 
Into his management all the concerns 



BOOK vm. 



57 



Of their eternity; managed how well 

They knew, that day, and might have sooner 

known, 
That the commandment was, Search, and believe 
In me, and not in man ; who leans on him 
Leans on a broken reed, that will impierce 
The trusted side. I am the way, tlie truth, 
The Hfe, alone, and there is none besides. 

This did they read, and yet refused to search, 
To search what easily was found, and, found. 
Of price uncountable. Most foolish, they 
Thought God with ignorance pleased, and blinded 

faith. 
That took not root in reason, purified 
With holy influence of his Spirit pure. 
So, on they walked, and stumbled in the light 
Of noon, because they would not open their eyes. 
Effect how sad of sloth ! that made them risk 
Their piloting to the eternal shore, 
To one who could mistake the lurid flash 
Of hell for heaven's true star, rather than bow 
The knee, and by one fervent word obtain 
His guidance sure, who calls the stars by name 
They prayed by proxy, and at second hand 
Believed, and slept, and put re[)entancc off. 
Until the knock of death awoke them, when 
They saw their ignorance both, and him they paid 
To bargain of their souls 'tvvixt them and God, 
Fled, and began repentance without end. 
How did they wish, tliat morning, as they stood 
With blushing covered, they had for themselves 
The Scripture searched, had for themselves be- 
lieved, 
And made acquaintance with the Judge ere then ! 

Great day of termination to the joys 
Of sin! to joys that grew on mortal boughs. 
On trees whose seed fell not from heaven, whose 

top 
Reached not above the clouds. From such, alone, 
The epicure took all his meals. In choice 
Of morsels for the body, nice he was. 
And scrupulous, and knew all wines by smell 
Or taste, and every composition knew 
Of cookery; but grossly drank, unskilled, 
The cup of spiritual pollution up, 
That sickened his soul to death, while yet his eyes 
•Stood out with fat. His feelings were his guide. 
He ate, and drank, and slept, and took all joys, 
Forbid and unforlnd, as impulse urged 
Or appetite, nor asked his reason why. 
He said, he followed Nature still, but lied ; 
For she was temperate and chaste, he full 
Of wine and all adultery; her face 
Was holy, most unholy his; her eye 
Was pure, his shot unhallowed fire; her lips 
Sang praise to God, his uttered oaths profane; 
Her breath was sweet, his rank with foul de- 
bauch. 
Yet pleaded he a kind and feeling heart, 



Even when he left a neighbour's bed defiled. 
Like migratory fowls, that flocking sailed 
From isle to isle, steering by sense alone, 
Whither the clime their hking best beseemed; 
So he was guided, so he moved through good 
And evil, right and wrong, but, ah! to fate 
All dillerent: they slept in dust, unpained; 
He rose, that day, to suffer endless pain. 

Cured of his unbelief, the sceptic stood. 
Who doubted of his being while he breathed, 
Than whom glossography itself, that spoke 
Huge folios of nonsense every hour, 
And left, surrounding every page, its marks 
Of prodigal stupidity, scarce more 
Of folly raved. The tyrant too, who sat 
In grisly council, like a "spider couched, 
With ministers of locust countenance, 
And made alliances to rob mankind, 
And holy termed, — for still, beneath a name 
Of pious sound, the wicked sought to veil 
Their crimes, — forgetful of his right divine. 
Trembled, and ov^'ncd oppression was of hell ; 
Nor did the uncivil robber, who unpursed 
The traveller on the high- way, and cut 
His throat, anticipate severer doom. 

In that assembly there was one, who, while 
Beneath the sun, aspired to be a fool; 
In different ages known by different names. 
Not worth repeating here. Be this enough 
With scrupulous care exact, he walked the rounds 
Of fashionable duty, laughed when sad; 
When merry, wept; deceiving, was deceived; 
And flattering, flattered. Fashion was his god. 
Obsequiously he fell before its shrine. 
In slavish plight, and trembled to offend. 
Ifgravencss suited, he was grave; if else. 
He travailed sorely, and made brief repose. 
To work the proper quantity of sin. 
In all submissive, to its changing shape, 
Still changing, girded he his vexed frame, 
And laughter made to men of sounder head. 
Most circumspect he was of bows, and nods. 
And salutations; and most seriously 
And dee[ily meditated he of dress; 
And in his dreams saw lace and ribbons fly. 
His soul was nought ; he damned it, every day. 
Unceremoniously. Oh ! fool of fools ! 
Pleased with a painted smile, he fluttered on. 
Like fly of gaudy plume, by fashion driven, 
As faded leaves by Autumn's wind, till Death 
Put forth his hand, and drew him out of sight. 
Oh! fool of fools! polite toman; to God 
Most rude : yet had he many rivals, who. 
Age after age, great striving made to bo 
Ridiculous, and to forget they had 
Immortal souls, that day remembered well. 
As rueful stood his other half, as wan 
Of cheek. Small her ambition was, but strange. 
The distaff, needle, all domestic cares, 



tHE COURSE OE TIME. 



Religion, children, husband, home, were things 
She could not bear the thought of, bitter drugs 
That sickened her soul. The house of wanton 

mirth 
And revelry, the mask, the dance, she loved, 
And in their service soul and body spent 
Most cheerfully. A little admiration. 
Or true or false, no matter which, pleased her, 
And o'er the wreck of fortune lost, and health, 
And peace, and an etetnity of bliss 
Lost, made her sweetly smile. She was convinced, 
That God had made her greatly out of taste ; 
And took much pains to make herself anew. 
Bedaubed with paint, and hung with ornaments 
Of curious selection, gaudy toy ! 
A show unpaid for, paying to be seen ! 
As beggar by the way, most humbly asking 
,.The alms of public gaze, — she went abroad. 
Folly admired, and indication gave 
Of envy, cold Civility made bows 
And smoothly flattered, Wisdom shook his head, 
And Laughter shaped his lip into a smile ; 
Sobriety did stare. Forethought grew pale. 
And Modesty hung dov/n the head and blushed, 
And Pity wept, as, on the frothy surge 
Of fashion tossed, she passed them by, like sail 
Before some devilish blast, and got no time 
To think, and never thought, till on the rock 
She dashed, of ruin, anguish, and despair. 
O how unhke this giddy thing in Time! 
And at the day of judgment how unlike, 
The modest, meek, retiring dame ! Her house 
Was ordered well, her children taught the way 
Of life, who, rising up in honour, called 
Her blessed. Best pleased to be admired at home. 
And hear, reflected from her husband's praise. 
Her own, she sought no gaze of foreign eye ; 
His praise alone, and faithful love, and trust 
Reposed, was happiness enough for her. 
Yet who, that saw her pass, and heard the poor 
With earnest benedictions on her steps 
Attend, could from obeisance keep his eye. 
Or tongue from due applause. In virtue fair, 
Adorned with modesty, and matron grade 
Unspeakable, and love, her face was like 
The light, most welcome to the eye of man ; 
Refreshing most, most honoured, most desired, 
Of all he saw in the dim world below. 
As Morning when she shed her golden locks. 
And on the dewy top of Hernion walked. 
Or Zion hill ; so glorious was her path. 
Old men beheld, and did her reverence. 
And bade their daughters look, and take from her 
Example of their future life ; the young 
Admired, and new resolve of virtue made. 
And none who was her husband asked ; his air 
Serene, and countenance of joy, the sign 
Of inward satisfaction, as he passed 
The crowd, or sat among tlie elders, told. 



In holiness complete, and in the robes 
Of saving righteousness, arrayed for heaven, 
How fair, that day, among the fair, she stood! 
How lovely on the eternal hills her steps! 

Restored to reason, on that morn, appeared 
The lunatic, who raved in chains, and asked 
No mercy when he died. Of lunacy, 
Innumerous were the causes ; humble pride, 
Ambition disappointed, riches lost. 
And bodily disease, and sorrow, oft 
By man inflicted on his brother man ; 
Sorrow that made the reason drunk, and yet 
Left much untasted — so the cup was filled ; 
Sorrow that, like an ocean, dark, deep, rough, 
And shoreless, rolled its billows o'er the soul 
Perpetually, and without hope of end. 

Take one example, one of female wo. 
Loved by a, father and a mother's love, 
In rural peace she lived, so fair, so light 
Of heart, so good, and young, that reason, scarce 
The eye could credit, but would doubt, as she 
Did stoop to pull the lily or the rose 
From morning's dew, if it reality 
Of flesh and blood, or holy vision, saw, 
In imagery of perfect womanhood. 
But short her bloom, her happiness was short. 
One saw her loveliness, and, with desire 
Unhallowed, burning, to her ear addressed 
Dishonest words ; " Her favour was his Hfe, 
His heaven; her frown his wo, his night, his 

death." 
With turgid phrase, thus wove in flattery's loonjj 
He on her womanish nature won, and age 
Suspicionless, and ruined, and forsook. 
For he a chosen villain was at heart. 
And capable of deeds that durst not seek 
Repentance. Soon her father saw her shame, 
His heart grew stone, he drove her forth to want 
And wintry winds, and with a horrid curse 
Pursued her ear, forbidding all return. 
Upon a hoary clifl'', that watched the sea, 
Her babe was found — dead. On its little cheek, 
The tear that nature bade it weep, had turned 
An ice-drop, sparkling in the morning beani; 
And to the turf its helpless hands Were frozen. 
For she, the woful mother, had gone mad, 
And laid it down, regardless of its fate 
And of her own. Yet had she many days 
Of sorrow in the world, but never wept. 
She lived on alms, and carried in her hand 
Some \vithered stalks she gathered in the spring. 
When any asked the cause, she smiled and said, 
They were her sisters, and would come and watch 
Her grave when she was dead. She never spoke 
Of her deceiver, father, mother, home, 
Or child, or heaven, or hell, or God, but still 
In lonely places walked, and ever gazed 
I Upon the withered stalks, and talked to them ; 
I Till, wasted to the shadow of her vout'\ 



BOOK Vlli. 



59 



With wo too wide to see beyond, she died — 
Not unatoned for by imputed blood, ^ . 

Nor by the Spirit, that mysterious works, 
Unsanctificd. Aloud, her father cursed. 
That day, his guilty pride, which would not own 
A daughter, whom the God of heaven and earth 
Was not ashamed to call his own ; and he, 
Who ruined her, read from her holy look, 
That pierced him with perdition manifold, 
His sentence, burning with vindictive fire. 

The Judge that took a bribe ; he who amiss 
Pleaded the widow's cause, and by delay 
Delaying ever, made the law at night 
More intricate than at the dawn, and on 
The morrow farther from a close, than when 
The sun last set, till he who in the suit 
Was poorest, by liis empty coflers, proved 
His cause the worst ; and he that had the bag 
Of weights deceitful, and the balance false ; 
And he that with a fraudful lip deceived 
In buying or in selling; — these, that morn, 
Found custom no excuse for sin, and knew 
Plain dealing was a virtue, but too late. 
And he that was supposed to do nor good 
Nor ill, surprised, could find no neutral ground, 
And learned, that to do nothing was to serve 
The devil, and transgress the laws of God. 
The noisy quack, that by profession hed. 
And uttered falsehoods of enormous size, 
With countenance as grave as truth beseemed ; 
And he that lied for pleasure, whom a lust 
Of being heard and making people stare, 
And a most steadfast hate of silence, drove 
Far wide of sacred truth, who never took 
The pains to think of what he was to say. 
But still made haste to speak with weary tongue 
Like copious stream for ever flowing on ; — 
Read clearly in the lettered heavens, what, long 
Before, they might have read. For every word 
Of folly, you, this day, shall give account ; 
And every liar shall his portion have 
Among the cursed, without the gates of life. 

With groansthat made no pause, lamenting there 
Were seen the duellist and suicide. 
This thought, but thought amiss, that of himself 
He was entire proprietor ; and so. 
When he was tired of Time, with his own hand, 
He opened the portals of Eternit}', 
And sooner than the devils hoped, arrived 
In hell. The other, of resentment quick. 
And, for a word, a look, a gesture, deemed, 
Not scrupulously exact in all respect, 
Prompt to revenge, went to the cited field, 
For double murder armed, his own, and hio 
That as himself he was ordained to love. 
The first, in pagan books of early times, 
Was heroism pronounced, and greatly praised. 
In fashion's glossary of later days, 
The la.st was honour called, and spirit high. 



Alas ! 'twas mortal spirit, hbnour which 

Forgot to wake at the last trumpet's voice, 

Bearing the signature of Time alone, 

Uncurrent in Eternity, and base. 

Wise men suspected this before ; for they 

Could never understand what honour meant, 

Or why that should be honour termed, which made 

Man murder man, and broke the laws of God 

Most wantonly. Sometimes, indeed, the grave, 

And those of Christian creed imagined, spoke 

Admiringly of honour, lauding much 

The noble youth, who, after many rounds 

Of boxing, died , or to the pistol shot 

His breast exposed, his soul to endless pain. 

But they who most admired, and understood 

This honour best, and on its altar laid 

Their lives, most obviously were fools ; and, what 

Fools only, and the wicked, understood. 

The wise agreed was some delusive Shade, 

That with the mi.st of time should disappear. 

Great day of revelation ! in the grave 
The hypocrite had left his mask, and stood 
In naked ugliness. He was a man 
Who stole the livery of the court of heaven, 
To serve the devil in ; in virtue's guise. 
Devoured the widow's house and orphan's bread; 
In holy phra.sc, transacted villanics 
That counnon sinners durst not meddle with. 
At sacred feast, he sat among the saints, 
And with his guilty hands touched holiest things 
And none of sin lamented more, or sighed 
More deeply, or with graver countenance. 
Or longer prayer, wept o'er the dying man, 
Whose infant cliildren, at the moment, he 
Planned how to rob. In sermon style he bought, 
And sold, and lied ; and salutations made 
In Scripture terms. He prayed by quantity, 
And with his repetitions long and loud. 
All knees were weary. With one hand he put 
A penny in the urn of poverty. 
And with the other took a shilling out. 
On charitable lists, — those trumps which t/'ld 
The public ear, who had in secret done 
The poor a benefit, and half the alms 
They told of, took themselves to keep them sound- 
ing- 
He blazed his name, more pleased to have it there 
Than in the book of life. See.st thou the man ! 
A serpent with an angel's voice ! a grave 
With flowers bestrewed ! and yet few weredeceived. 
His virtues being over-done, his face 
Too grave, his prayers too long, his charities 
Too pompously attended, and his speech 
Larded too frequently and out of time 
With serious phraseology, — were rents 
That in his garments opened in spite of him, 
Through which the well-accustomed eye could see 
The rottenness of his heart. None deeper blushed. 
As in the all-piercing light he stood, exposed, 



eo 



THE COURSE OF TIME. 



No longer herJing with the holy ones. 

Yet still he tried to bring his countenance 

To sanctimonious seeming ; but, meanwhile, 

The shame witliin, now visible to all, 

His purpose balked. The righteous smiled, and 

even 
Despair itself some signs of laughter gave, 
As ineffectually he strove to wipe 
His brow, that inward guiltiness defiled. 
Detected wretch ! of all the reprobate, 
None seemed maturer for the flames of hell, 
Where still his face, from ancient custom wears 
A holy air which says to all that pass 
Him by, " I was a hypocrite on earth." 

That was the hour which measured out to each, 
Impartially, his share of reputation. 
Correcting all mistakes, and from the name 
Of the good man all slanders wiping off. 
Good name was dear to all. Without it, none 
Could soundly sleep, even on a royal bed, 
Or drink with relish from a cup of gold ; 
And with it, on his borrowed straw, or by 
The leafless hedge, beneath the open heavens, 
The weary beggar took untroubled rest. 
It was a music of most heavenly tone, 
To which the heart leaped joyfully, and all 
The spirits danced. For honest fame, men laid 
Their heads upon the block, and, while the axe 
Descended, looked and smiled. It was of price 
Invaluable. Riches, health, repose, 
Whole kingdoms, life, were given for it, and he 
Who got it was the winner still: and lie 
Who sold it durst not open his ear, nor look 
On human face, he knew himself so vile, 
Yet it, with all its preciousness, was due 
To Virtue, and around her should have shed, 
Unasked, its savoury smell ; but Vice, deformed 
Itself, and ugly, and of flavour rank, 
To rob fair Virtue of so sweet an incense, 
And with it to anoint and salve its own 
Rotten ulcers, and perfume the patli that led 
To death, — strove daily by a thousand means : 
And oft succeeded to make Virtue sour 
In the world's nostrils, and its loatliy self 
Smell sweetly. Rumour was the messenger 
Of defamation, and so swift that none 
Could be the first to tell an evil tale ; 
And was, withal, so infamous for lies. 
That he who of her sayings, on his creed, 
The fewest entered, was deemed wisest man. 
The fool, and many who had credit, too, 
For wisdom, grossly swallowed all she said, 
Unsifted; and although, at every word, 
They heard her contradict herself, and saw 
Hourly they were imposed upon and mocked. 
Yet still they ran to hear her speak, and stared, 
And wondered much, and stood aghast, and said 
It could not be; and, while they blushed for shame 
At their own faith, and seemed to doubt, believed, 



And whom they met, with many sanctions, told. 
So did experience fail to teach ; — so hard 
It was fo learn this simple truth, — confirmed 
At every corner by a thousand proofs, — 
That common Fame most impudently lied. 

'Twas Slander filled her mouth with lying words, 
Slander, the foulest whelp of Sin. The man 
In whom this spirit entered was undone. 
His tongue was set on fire of hell, his heart 
Was black as death, his legs were faint with haste 
To propagate the lie his soul had framed. 
His pillow was the peace of families 
Destroyed, the sigh of innocence reproached. 
Broken friendships, and the strife of brotherhoods; 
Yet did he spare his sleep, and hear the clock 
Number the midnight watches, on his bed. 
Devising mischief more ; and early rose. 
And made most hellish meals of good men's names. 

From door to door you might have seen him 
speed. 
Or placed amidst a group of gaping fools. 
And whispering in their ears with his foul lips. 
Peace fled the neighbourhood in which he made 
His haunts ; and, like a moral pestilence. 
Before his breath, the healthy shoots.and blooms 
Of social joy and happiness decayed. 
Fools only in his company were seen. 
And those forsaken of God, and to themselves 
Given up. The prudent shunned him and his 

house 
As one who had a deadly moral plague. 
And fain would all have shunned him at the day 
Of judgment; but in vain. All who gave ear 
With greediness, or wittingly their tongues 
Made herald to his lies, around him wailed; 
While on his face, thrown back by injured men, 
In characters of ever-blushing shame, 
Appeared ten thousand slanders, all his own. 

Among the accursed, who sought a hiding place 
In vain, from fierceness of Jeliovah's rage, 
And from the liot displeasure of the Lamb, 
Most wretched, most contemptible, most vile, — 
Stood the false priest, and in his conscience felt 
The fellest gnaw of the Undying Worm. 
And so he might, for he had on his hands 
The blood of souls, that would not wipe away. 
Hear what he was. He swore, in sight of God 
And man, to preach his master, Jesus Christ ; 
Yet preached himself: he swore that love of souls, 
Alone, had drawn him to the church; yet strewed 
The path that led to hell with tempting flowers, 
And in the ear of sinners, as they took 
The way of death, he whispered peace : he swore 
Away all love of lucre, all desire 
Of earthly pomp ; and yet a princely seat 
He liked, and to the clink of Mammon's box 
Gave most rapacious ear. His prophecies. 
He swore, were from the Lord; and yet, taught 
lies 



BOOK vin. 



61 



For gain: with quackish ointment, healed the 

wounds 
And bruises of the soul, outside, but left, 
Within, the pestilent matter unobserved, 
To sap tiie moral constitution quite. 
And soon to burst a^ain, incurable. 
He with untempered mortar daubed the walls 
Of Zion, saying, Peace, when there was none. 
The man who came with thirsty soul to hear 
Of Jesus, went away unsatisfied ; 
For he another gospel preached than Paul, 
And one that had no Saviour in't; and yet, 
His life was worse. Faith, charity, and love, 
Humility, forgiveness, holiness. 
Were words well lettered in his sabbath creed ; 
But with his life he wrote as plain, Revenge, 
PrJde^ tyranny, and lust of wealth and power 
Inordinate, and lewdness unashamed. 
He was a wolf in clothing of the lamb, 
That stole into the fold of God, and on 
The blood of souls, which he did sell to death, 
Grew fat ; and yet, when any would have turned 
Him out, he cried, " Touch not the priest of God." 
And that he was anointed, fools beUeved; 
But knew, that day, he was the devil's priest, 
Anointed by the hands of Sin and Death, 
And set particularly apart to ill, — 
While on him smoked the vials of perdition. 
Poured measureless. Ah me! what cursing then 
Was heaped upon his head by ruined souls. 
That charged him with their murder, as he stood. 
With eye of all the unredeemed most sad. 
Waiting the coming of the Son of Man! 
But let me pause, for thou hast seen his place 
And punishment, beyond the sphere of love. 

Much was removed that tempted once to sin. 
Avarice no gold, no wine the drunkard, saw. 
But Envy had enough, as heretofore. 
To fill his heart with gall and bitterness. 
What made the man of envy what he was, 
Was worth in others, vileness in himself, 
A lust of praise, with undeserving deeds, 
And conscious poverty of soul : and still 
It was his earnest work and daily toil. 
With lying tongue, to make the noble seem 
Mean as himself. On fame's high hill he saw 
The laurel spread its everlasting green. 
And wished to climb; but felt his knees too weak, 
And stood below, unhappy, laying hands 
Upon the strong, ascending gloriously 
The steps of honour, bent to draw them back. 
Involving ofl the brightness of their path, 
In mists his breath had raised. Whene'er he 

heard. 
As oft he did, of joy and happiness. 
And great prosperity, and rising worth, 
'Twas like a wave of wormwood o'er his soul 
Rolling its bitterness. His joy was war, 
The wo of others. When, from wealth to want. 



From praises to reproach, from peace to strife, 

From mirth to tears, he saw a brother fall. 

Of Virtue make a slip, — his dreams were sweet. 

But chief with Slander, daughter of his own, 

He took unhallowed j)leasure. When she talked, 

And with her filthy lips defiled the best. 

His ear drew near ; with wide attention gaped 

His mouth ; his eye, well pleased, as eager gazed 

As glutton, when the dish he most desired 

Was placed before him ; and a horrid mirth. 

At intervals, with laughter shook his sides. 

The critic too, who, for a bit of bread. 

In book that fell aside before the ink 

Was dry, poured forth excessive nonsense, gave 

Him much delight. The critics, — some, but few, — 

Were worthy men, and earned renown which had 

Immortal roots ; but most were weak and vile. 

And, as a cloudy swarm of summer flies. 

With angry hum and slender lance, beset 

The sides of some huge animal ; so did 

They buzz about the illustrious man, and fain, 

With his immortal honour, down the stream 

Of fame would have descended ; but, alas ! 

The hand of Time drove them away. They were, 

Indeed, a simple race of men, who had 

One only art, which taught them still to say, 

Whate'er was done might have been better done; 

And with this art, not ill to learn, they made 

A shift to live. But, sometimes too, beneath 

The dust they raised, was worth a while obscured; 

And then did Envy prophesy and laugh. 

O Envy! hide thy bosom, hide it deep. 

A thousand snakes, with black, envenomed 

mouths, 
N£st there, and hiss, and feed through all thy 
heart. — 

Such one I saw, here interposing, said 
The new arrived, in that dark den of shame, 
Whom who hath seen sliall never wish to see 
Again. Before him, in the infernal gloom, 
That omnipresent shape of Virtue stood 
On which he ever threw his eye; and, like 
A cinder that had life and feeling, seemed 
His face, with inward pining, to be what 
He could not he. As being that had burned 
Continually, in slow-consuming fire, — 
Half an eternity, and was to burn 
For evermore, he looked. Oh! sight to be 
Forgotten! thought too horrible to think ! 

But say, believing in sucli wo to come, 
Such dreadful certainty of endless pain, 
Could beings of forecasting mould, as thou 
Entitlest men, deliberately walk on, 
Unscared, and overleap their own belief 
Into the lake of ever-burning firel 

Thy tone of asking seems to make reply. 
And rightly seems : They did not so believe. 
Not one of all thou sawst lament and wail 
In Tophet, perfectly believed the word 



€2 



THE COURSE OB* TIME. 



Of God, else none had thither gone. Absurd, 
To think that beings, made with reason, formed 
To calculate, compare, choose, and reject, 
By nature taught, and self, and every sense, 
To choose the good, and pass the evil by, 
Could, with full credence of a time to come, 
When all the wicked should be really damned, 
And cast beyond the sphere of light and love, 
Have persevered in sin ! Too foolish this 
For folly in its prime. Can aught that thinks 
And wills choose certain evil, and reject 
Good, in his heart believing he does so 1 
Could man choose pain, instead of endless joy. 
Mad supposition, though maintained by some 
Of honest mind. Behold a man condemned ! 
Either he ne'er inquired, and therefore he 
Could not believe ; or, else, he carelessly 
Inquired, and something other than the word 
Of God received into his cheated faith ; 
And therefore he did not believe, but down 
To hell descended, leaning on a lie. 

Faith was bewildered nmch by men who meant 
To make it clear, so simple in itself, 
A thought so rudimental and so plain, 
That none by comment could it plainer make. 
All faith was one. In object, not in kind, 
The difference lay. The faith that saved a soul, 
And that which in the common truth believed. 
In essence, were the same. Hear, then, what 

faith, 
True, Christian faith, which brought salvation, 

was: 
Belief in all that God revealed to men ; 
Observe, in all that God revealed to men. 
In all he promised, threatened, commanded, said. 
Without exception, and without a doubt. 
Who thus believed, being by the Spirit touched, 
As naturally the fruits of faith produced. 
Truth, temperance, meekness, holiness, and love, 
As human eye from darkness sought the light. 
How could he else? If he, who had firm faith 
The morrow's sun should rise, ordered affairs 
Accordingly ; if he, who had firm faith 
That spring, and summer, and autumnal days, 
Should pass away, and winter really come, 
Prepared accordingly ; if he, who saw 
A bolt of death approaching, turned aside 
And let it pass ; — as surely did the man, 
Who verily believed the word of God, 
Though erring whiles, its general laws obey, 
Turn back from hell, and take the way to heaven. 

That faith was necessary, some alleged, 
Unreined and uncontrollable by will. 
Invention savouring much of hell ! Indeed, 
It was the master-stroke of wickedness, 
Last effort of Abaddon's council dark, 
To make man think himself a slave to fate, 
And, worst of all, a slave to fate in faith. 
For thus 'twas reasoned then : From faith alone. 



And from opinion, springs all action ; hence, 

If faith's compelled, so is all action too : 

But deeds compelled are not accountable ; 

So mari is not amenable to God. 

Arguing that brought such monstrous birth, 

though good 
It seemed, must have been false. Most false it 

was. 
And by the book of God condemned, throughout. 
We freely own, that truth, when set before 
The mind, with perfect evidence, compelled 
Belief; but error lacked such witness, still : 
And none who now lament in moral night, 
The word of God refused on evidence 
That might not have been set aside as false. 
To reason, try, choose, and reject, was free. 
Hence God, by faith, acquitted, or condemned; 
Hence righteous men, with liberty of will. 
Believed ; and hence thou sawst in Erebus 
The wicked, who as freely disbelieved 
What else had led them to the land of life. 



BOOK IX. 

Fairest of those that left the calm of heaven, 
And ventured down to man, with words of peacej 
Daughter of Grace ! known by whatever name, 
Religion, Virtue, Piety, or Love 
Of Holiness, the day of thy reward 
Was come. Ah! thou wast long despised, des- 
pised 
By those thou wooedst from death to endless life. 
Modest and meek, in garments white as those 
That seraphs wear, and countenance as mild 
As Mercy looking on Repentance' tear j 
With eye of purity, now darted up 
To God's eternal throne, now humbly bent 
Upon thyself, and, weeping down thy cheek, 
That glowed with universal love immense, 
A tear, pure as the dews that fall in heaven; 
In thy left hand, the olive branch, and in 
Thy right, the crown of immortality; — 
With noiseless foot, thou wjJkedst the vale > 

earth. 
Beseeching men, from age to age, to turn 
From utter death, to turn from wo to bliss ; 
Beseeching evermore, and evermore 
Despised — not evermore despised, not now. 
Not at the day of doom ; most lovely then. 
Most honourable, thou appeared, and most 
To be desired. The guilty heard the song 
Of thy redeemed, how loud ! and saw thy face 
How fair ! Alas ! it was too late ! the hour 
Of making friends was passed, thy favour then 
Might not be sought ; but recollection, sad 
And accurate, as miser counting o'er 
And o'er again the sum he must lay out, 



BOOK IX. 



6S 



Distinctly in the wicked's ear rehearsed 

Each opportunity despised and lost, 

While on them gleamed thy holy look, that like 

A fiery torrent went into their souls. 

The day of thy reward was come, the day 

Of great remuneration to thy friends. 

To those, known by whatever name, who sought, 

In every place, in every time, to do 

Unfeignedly their Maker's will, revealed, 

Or gathered else from nature's school ; well pleased 

With God's applause alone, that, like a stream 

Of sweetest melody, at still of night 

By wanderer heard, in their most secret ear 

For ever whispered, Peace ; and, as a string 

Of kindred tone awoke, their inmost soul 

Responsive answered, Peace ; inquiring still 

And searching, night and day, to know their duty 

When known, with undisputing trust, with love 

Unquenchable, with zeal, by reason's lamp 

Inflamed, — performing ; and to Him, by whose 

Profound, all-calculating skill alone. 

Results — results even of the slightest act, 

Are fully grasped, with unsuspicious faith, 

All consequences leaving ; to abound. 

Or want, alike prepared; who knew to be 

Exalted how, and how to be abased ; 

How best to live, and how to die when asked. 

Their prayers sincere, their alms in secret done. 

Their fightings with themselves, their abstinence 

From pleasure, though by mortal eye unseen, 

Their hearts of resignation to the will 

Of Heaven, their patient bearing of reproach 

And shame, their charity, and faith, and hope, — 

Thou didst remember, and in full repaid. 

No bankrupt thou, who at the bargained hour 

Of payment due, sent to his creditors 

A tale of losses and mischances, long. 

Ensured by God himsielf, and from the stores 

And treasures of his wealth, at will supplied, — 

Religion, thou alone, of all that noen, 

On earth, gave credit, to be reimbursed 

On the other side the grave, didst keep thy word, 

Thy day, and all thy promises fulfilled. 

As in the mind, rich with unborrowed wealthi 
Where multitudes of thoughts for utterance strivp. 
And all so fair, that each seems worthy first ( 
To enter on the tongue, and from the lips 
Have passage forth, — selection hesitates 
Perplexed, and loses time, anxious, since all 
Cannot be taken, to take the best ; and yet 
Afraid, lest what he left be worthier still ; 
And grieving much, where all so goodly look. 
To leave rejected one, or in the rear 
Let any be obscured : so did the bard. 
Though not unskilled, as on that multitude 
Of men who once awoke to judgment, he 
Threw back reflection, hesitating pause. 
For as his harp, in tone severe, had sung 
What figure the most famous sinners made, 



When from the grave they rose unmasked ; so did 

He wish to character the good ; but yet, 

Among so many, glorious all, all worth 

Immortal fame, with whom begin, with whom 

To end, was difficult to choose ; and long 

His auditors, upon the tiptoe raised 

Of expectation, might have kept, had not 

His eye — for so it is in heaven, that what 

Is needed always is at hand — beheld. 

That moment, on a mountain near the throne 

Of God, tlie most renowned of the redeemed, 

Rejoicing : nor who first, wlio most to praise, 

Debated more ; but thus, with sweeter note, 

Well pleased to sing, with highest eulogy. 

And first, whom God applauded most, — began. 

With patient ear, thou now hast heard, — though 
whiles. 
Aside digressing, ancient feeling turned 
My lyre, — what shame tlie wicked had, that day, 
What wailing, what remorse ; so hear, in brief, 
How bold the righteous stood, the men redeemed 
How fair in virtue, and in hope how glad ! 
And first among the holy shone, as best 
Became, tlie faithful minister of God. 

See where he walks on yonder mount that lifts 
Its summit high, on the right hand of bliss, 
Sublime in glory, talking with his peers 
Of the incarnate Saviour's love, and passed 
Affliction lost in present joy ! See how 
His face with heavenly ardour glows, and how 
His hand, enraptured, strikes the golden lyre! 
As now, conversing of the Lamb, once slain, 
He speaks; and now, from vines that never hear 
Of winter, but in monthly harvest yield 
Their fruit abundantly, he plucks the grapes 
Of life ! But what he was on earth it most 
Behoves to say. Elect by God himself. 
Anointed by the Holy Ghost, and set 
Apart to the groat work of saving men ; 
Instructed fully in the will divine. 
Supplied with grace in store, as need might ask, 
And with the stamp and signature of heaven. 
Truth, mercy, patience, holiness, and love, 
Accredited ;^he was a man, by God, 
The Lord, commissioned to make known to men 
The eternal counsels ; in his Master's name, 
To treat with them of everlasting things, 
Of life, death, bliss, and wo; to oflTer terms 
Of pardon, grace, and peace, to the rebelled; 
To teach the ignorant soul, to cheer the sad ; 
To bind, to loose, with all authority ; 
To give the feeble strength, the hopeless hope, 
To help the halting, and to lead the blind ; 
To warn the careless, heal the sick of hearty 
Arouse the indolent, and on the proud 
And obstinate offender to denounce 
The wrath of God. All other men, what name 
Soe'er they bore, whatever office held, 
It- lawful held,— the magistrate supreme, 



64 



THE COURSE OF TIME. 



Or else subordinate, were chosen by men, 

Their fellows, and from men derived their power, 

And were accountable, for all they did, 

To men ; but he, alone, his office held 

Immediately from God, from God received 

Authority, and was to none but God 

Amenable. The elders of the church. 

Indeed, upon him laid their hands, and set 

Him visibly apart to preach the word 

Of life ; but this was merely outward rite 

And decent ceremonial, performed 

On all alike ; and oft, as thou hast heard. 

Performed on those God never sent ; his call, 

His consecration, his anointing, all 

Were inward, in the conscience heard and felt 

Thus, by Jehovah chosen, and ordained 

To take into his charge the souls of men, 

And for his trust to answer at the day 

Of judgment, — great plenipotent of heaven, 

And representative of God on earth, — 

Fearless of men and devils; unabashed 

By sin enthroned, or mockery of a prince, 

Unawed by armed legions, unseduced 

By offered bribes, burning with love to souls 

Unquenchable, and mindful still of his 

Great charge and vast responsibility ; — 

High in the temple of the hving God, 

He stood amidst the people, and declared 

Aloud the truth, the whole revealed truth, 

Ready to seal it with his blood. Divine . 

Resemblance most complete ! with mercy now 

And love, his face, illumed, shone gloriously; 

And frowning now indignantly, it seemed 

As if offended Justice, from his eye. 

Streamed forth vindictive wrath! Men heard, 

alarmed. 
The uncircumcised infidel believed; 
Light-thouglited Mirth grew serious, and wept; 
The laugh profane sunk in a sigh of deep 
Repentance, the blasphemer, kneeling, prayed, 
And, prostrate in the dust, for mercy called; 
And cursed, old, forsaken sinners gnashed 
Their teeth, as if their hour had been arrived. 
Such was his calling, his commission such. 
Yet he was humble, kind, forgiving, meek, 
Easy to be entreated, gracious, mild ; 
And, with ail patience and affection, taught, 
Rebuked, persuaded, solaced, counselled, warned, 
In fervent style and manner. Needy, poor. 
And dying men, like music, heard his feet 
Approach their beds ; and guilty wretches took 
New hope, and in his prayers wept and smiled, 
And blessed him, as they died forgiven ; and all 
Saw in his face contentment, in his life, 
The path to glory and perpetual joy. 
Deep-learned in the philosophy of heaven, 
He searched the causes out of good and ill, 
Profoundly calculating their effects 
Far past the bounds of Time; and balancing. 



In the arithmetic of future things, 
The loss and protit of the soul to all 
Eternity. A skilful workman he 
In God's great moral vineyard : what to prune 
What cautious hand he knew, what to uproot; 
What were mere weeds, and what celestial plants 
Which had unfading vigour in them, knew; 
Nor knew alone, but watched them night and day 
And reared and nourished them, till fit to be 
Transplanted to the Paradise above. 

Oh! who can speak his praise! great, humbl» \ 
man! 
He in the current of destruction stood 
And warned the sinner of his wo; led on 
Immanuel's members in the evil day ; 
And, with the everlasting arms embraced 
Himself around, stood in the dreadful front 
Of battle, high, and warred victoriously 
With death and hell. And now was come hi» 

rest. 
His triumph day. Illustrious like a sun, 
In that assembly, he, shining from far, 
Most excellent in glory, stood assured. 
Waiting the promised crown, the promised throno 
The welcome and approval of his Lord. 
Nor one alone, but many — prophets, priests. 
Apostles, great reformers, all that served 
Messiah faithfully, like stars appeared 
Of fairest beam ; and round them gathered, clad 
In white, the vouchers of their ministry — 
The flock their care had nourished, fed, and saved 

Nor yet in common glory blazing, stood 
The true philosopher, decided friend 
Of truth and man. Determined foe of all 
Deception, calm, collected, patient, wise. 
And humble, undeceived by outward shape 
Of things, by fashion's revelry uncharmed, 
By honour unbewitched, — he left the chase 
Of vanity, and all the quackeries 
Of life, to fools and heroes, or whoe'er 
Desired them; and witli reason, much despised, 
Traduced, yet heavenly reason, to the shade 
Retired — retired, but not to dream, or build 
Of gliostly fancies, seen in the deep noon 
Of sleep, ill-balanced theories ; retired, 
But did not leave mankind ; in pity, not 
In wrath, retired; and still, though distant, kept 
His eye on men ; at proper angle took 
His stand to see them better, and, beyond 
The clamour which the bells of foHy made, 
That most had hung about them, to consult 
With nature, how their madness might be cured^ 
And how their true substantial comforts might 
Be multiplied. Religious man ! what God 
By prophets, priests, evangelists, revealed 
Of sacred truth, he thankfially received. 
And, by its light directed, went in (search 
Of more. Before him, darkness fled ; and all 
The goblin tribe, that hung upon the breasts 



BOOK IX. -^ ^<^^2f /'i ^ 



Of Night, and haunted still the moral gloom 
With shapeless forms, and blue, infernal lights, 
And indistinct, and devilish whisperings, 
That the iniseducated fancies vexed 
Of superstitious men, — at his approach, 
Dispersed, invisible. Where'er he went, 
This lesson still he taught, To fear no ill 
But sin, no l)eing but Almighty God. 
All-comprehending sage ! too hard alone 
For him was man's salvation ; all besides. 
Of use or comfort, that distinction made 
Between the desperate savage, scarcely raised 
Above the beast whose flesh he ate, undressed, 
And the most polished of the human race, 
Was product of his persevering search. 
Religion owed him much, as from the false 
She suffered mueh; for still his main design. 
In all his contemplations, was to trace 
The wisdom, providence, and love of God, 
And to his fellows, less observant, show 
Them forth. From prejadice redeemed, with all 
His passions still, above the common world, 
Sublime in reason anil in aim sublime, 
He sat, and on the marvellous works of God 
Sedately thought; now glancing up his eye. 
Intelligent, through all the starry dance, 
And penetrating now the deep remote 
Of central causes in the womb opaque 
Of matter hiJ ; now v\'ith inspection nice, 
Entering the mystic labyrinths of the mind, 
Where thought, of notice ever shy, behind 
Thouglit, disappearing, still retired ; and still, 
Thougiit meeting thouglit, and thought awaken- 
ing thought. 
And mingling still with thought in endless maze, — 
Bewildered observation ; now, with eye 
Yet more severely purged, looking far down 
Into the heart, where passion wove a web 
Of thous:ind thousand threads, in grain and hue 
All different; then, upward venturing whiles, 
But reverently, and in his hand, the light 
Revealed, near the eternal Throne, he gazed. 
Philosophizing less than worshipping. 
Most truly great! his intellectual strength 
And knowledge vast, to men of lesser mind. 
Seemed infinite; yet, from his high pursuits, 
And reasonings most profound, he still returned 
Home, with an humbler and a wanner heart: 
And none so lowly bowed before his God, 
As none so well His awful majesty ,, 
And goodness comprehended ; or so well 
His own dependency and weakness knew. . 

How glorious now, with vision purified 
At the Essential Truth, entirely free 
From error, he, investigating still, — 
For knowledge is not found, unsought, in hea- 
ven, — 
From world to world, at pleasure, roves, on wing 
Of golden ray upborne; or. at the feet 



Of heaven's most ancient sages, sitting, hears 
New wonders of the wondrous works of God! 

Illustrious too, that morning, stood the man 
Exalted by the people, to the throne 
Of government, established on the base 
Of justice, liberty, and equal right; 
Who, in his countenance sublime, expressed 
A nation's majesty, and yet was meek 
And humble ; and in royal palace gave 
Example to the meanest, of the fear 
Of God, and all integrity of life 
And manners; who, august, yet lowly; who, 
Severe, yet gracious ; in his very heart, 
Detesting all Di)pression, all intent 
Of private aggrandizement; and, the first 
In every public duty, held the scales 
Of justice, and as the law, which reigned in him, 
Commanded, gave rewards; or, with the edge 
Vindictive, smote, now light, now heavily, 
According to the stature of the crime. 
Conspicuous like an oak of healthiest bough, 
Deep-rooted in his country's love, he stood. 
And gave his hand to Virtue, helping up 
The honest man to honour and renown; 
And, with, the look which goodness wears in wrath 
Withering the very blood of Knavery, 
And from his presence driving far, ashamed. 

Nor less remarkable, among the blessed, 
Ap[)eared the man, who, in the senate-house 
Watchful, unhired, unhrihed, and uncorrupt, 
And party only to the common weal, 
In virtue's awful age, pleaded for right, 
With truth so clear, with argument so strong, 
With action so sincere, and tone so loud 
And deep, as made the despot quake behind 
His adamantine gntes, and every joint, 
In terror, smite his fellow-joint relaxed; 
Or, marcliingto the field, in burnislied steel, 
While, frowning on his brow, tremendous hung 
The wrath of a whole peoi)le, long provoked, — 
Mustered the stormy wings of war, in day 
Of dreadful deeds; and led the battle on. 
When Liberty, swift as the fires of heaven. 
In fury rode, with all her hosts, and threw 
The tyrant down, and drove invasion back. 
Illustrious he — illustrious all appeared. 
Who ruled supreme in riglitc^ousncss; or held 
Inferior place, in steadfast rectitude 
Of soul. Peculiarly severe had been 
The nurture of their youth, their knowledge great. 
Great was their wisdom, great their cares, and 

great 
Their self-denial, and their service done 
To God and man ; and great was their reward, 
At hand, proportioned to their worthy deeds. 

Breathe all thy minstrelsy, immortal Harp! 
Breathe numbers warm with love, while I rehearse- 
1 Delighted theme, resembling most the songs 
; Which , day and night, are sung before the Lamb! • 



66 



4-V 






■ « • THE COURSE OE'-TIME. 



Thy praise, O Charity ! thy labours most 

Divine ; thy sympathy with sighs, and tears, 

And groans ; thy great, thy god-hke wish, to heal 

All misery, all fortune's wounds, and make 

The soul of every living thing rejoice. 

O thou wast needed much in days of Time! 

No virtue, half so much! — None half so fair! 

To all the rest, however fine, thou gavest 

A finishing and polish, without which 

No man e'er entered heaven. Let me record 

His praise, the man of great benevolence, 

Who pressed thee closely to his glowing heart, 

And to thy gentle bidding made his feet 

Swift minister. Of all mankind, his soul 

Was most in harmony with heaven : as one 

Sole family of brothers, sisters, friends, 

One in their origin, one in their rights 

To all the common gifts of providence. 

And in their hopes, their joys, and sorrows one, 

He viewed the universal human race. 

He needed not a law of state, to force 

Grudging submission to the law of God. 

The law of love was in his heart, alive ; 

What he possessed, he counted not his own; 

But, like a faithful steward in a house 

Of public alms, what freely he received 

He freely gave, distributing to all 

The helpless the last mite beyond his own 

Temperate support, and reckoning still the gift 

But justice due to want; and so it was. 

Although the world, with compliment not ill 

Applied, adorned it with a fairer name. 

Nor did he wait till to his door the voice 

Of supplication came, but want abroad, 

With foot as silent as the starry dews. 

In search of misery that pined unseen. 

And would not ask. And who can tell what sights 

He saw! what groans he heard, in that cold world 

Below ! where Sin, in league with gloomy Death, 

Marched daily through the length and bi-eadth of 

all 
The land, wasting at will, and making earth, 
Fair earth ! a lazar-house, a dungeon dark, 
Where Disappointment fed on ruined Hope, 
Where Guilt, worn out, leaned on the triple edge 
Of want, remorse, despair; where Cruelty 
Reached forth a oup of wormwood to the tips 
Of Sorrow, that to deeper Sorrow wailed ; 
Where Mockery, and Disease, and Poverty, 
Met miserable Age, erewhile sore bent 
With his own burden ; vi^here the arrowy winds 
Of winter pierced the naked orphan babe, 
And chilled them.other's heart, who had no borne; 
And where, alas! in mid-time of his day, 
The honest man, robbed by some villain's hand, 
Or with long sickness pale, and paler yet 
With want and hunger, oft drank bitter draughts 
Of his own tears, and had no bread to eat. 
Oh! who can tell what sights he saw, what shapes 



Of wretchedness I or who describe what smiles 

Of gratitude illumined the face of wo, 

While from his hand he gave the bounty forth ! 

As when the Sun, to Cancer wheeling back. 

Returned from Capricorn, and showed the north, 

That long had lain in cold and cheerless night, 

His beamy countenance ; all nature then 

Rejoiced together glad ; the flower looked up 

And smiled ; the forest, from his locks, shook oflT 

The hoary frosts, and clapped his hands; the birds 

Awoke, and, singing, rose to meet the day; 

A nd from his hollow den, where many months 

He slumbered sad in darkness, blithe and light 

Of heart the savage sprung, and saw again 

Flis mountains shine, and with new songs of love 

Allured the virgin's ear: so did the. house, 

The prison-house of guilt, and all t^e abodes 

Of unprovided helplessness, revive, 

As on them looked the sunny messenger 

Of Charity. By angels tended still. 

That marked his deeds, and wrote them in the 

book 
Of God's remembrance ; careless he to be 
Observed of men, or have each mite bestowed 
Recorded punctually, with name and place, 
In every bill of news. Pleased to do good, 
He gave^ and sought no more, nor questioned much, 
Nor reasoned, who deserved ; for well he knew 
The face of need. Ah me ! who could mistake^ 
The shame to ask, the want that urged within, 
Composed a look so perfectly distinct 
From all else human, and withal so full ■ 
Of misery, that none could pass, untouched, 
And be a Christian, or thereafter claim. 
In any form, the name or rights of man, 
Or, at the day of judgment, lift his eye; 
While he, in name of Christ, who gave the poor 
A cup of water, or a bit of bread, 
Impatient for his advent, waiting stood. 
Glowing in robes of love and holiness, 
Heaven's fairest dress ! and round him ranged, in 

white, 
A thousand witnesses appeared, prepared 
To tell his gracious deeds before the Throne. 

Nor unrenowned among the moat renowned, 
Nor 'mong the fairest unadmired, that morn, 
When highest fame was proof of highest worth, 
Distinguished stood the bard : not he, who sold 
The incommunicable, heavenly gift, 
To Folly, and with lyre of perfect tone, 
Prepared by God himself, for holiest praise,-^ 
Vilest of traitors! most dishonest man ! — 
Sat by the door of Ruin, and made there 
A melody so sweet, and in the mouth 
Of drunkenness and debauch, that else had croaked 
In natural discordance jarring harsh, 
Put so divine a song, that many turned 
Aside, and entered in undone, and thought 
Meanwhile, it was the gate of heaven, so like 



BOOK IX. 



G7 



An angel's voice the music seemed ; nor he, 

Who, whining grievously of damsel coy. 

Or blaming fortune, that would nothing give 

For doing nought, in indolent lament 

Unprofitable, passed his piteous days, 

Making himself the hero of his tale, 

Deserving ill the poet's name : but he, 

The bard, by God's own hand anointed, who. 

To Virtue's all-delighting harmony. 

His numbers tuned : who, from the fount of truth. 

Poured melody, and beauty poured, and love, 

In holy stream, into the human heart; 

And, from the height of lofty argument. 

Who "justified the ways of God to man," 

And sung what still he sings, approved, in heaven ; 

Though now with bolder note, above the damp 

Terrestrial, which the pure celestial fire 

Cooled, and restrained in part his flaming wing. 

Philosophy was deemed of deeper thought, 
And judgment more severe, than Poetry ; 
To fable, she, and fancy, more inclined. 
And yet, if Fancy, as was understood, 
Was of creative nature, or of power. 
With self-wrought stuflT, to build a fabric up, 
To mortal vision wonderful and strange, 
Philosophy, the theoretic, claimed. 
Undoubtedly, the first and highest place 
In Fancy's favour. Her material souls. 
Her chance, her atoms shaped alike, her white 
Proved black, her universal nothing, all ; 
And all her wondrous systems, how the mind 
With matter met ; how man was free, and yet 
All pre-ordained ; how evil first began ; 
And chief, her speculations, soaring high, 
Of the eternal, uncreated Mind, 
Which left all reason infinitely far 
Behind — surprising feat of theory ! — 
Were pure creation of her own, webs wove 
Of gossamer in Fancy's lightest loom, 
And no where, on the list of being made 
By God, recorded : but her look, meanwhile. 
Was grave and studious ; and many thought 
She reasoned deeply, when she wildly raved. 

The true, legitimate, anointed bard. 
Whose song through ages poured its melody. 
Was most severely thoughtful, most minute 
And accurate of observation, most 
Familiarly acquainted with all modes 
And phrases of existence. True, no doubt. 
He had originally drunk, from out 
The fount of life and love, a double draught. 
That gave whate'er he touched a double life : 
But this was mere desire at first, and power 
Devoid of means to work by; need was still 
Of persevering, quick, inspective mood 
Of mind, of faithful memory, vastly stored. 
From universal being's ample field. 
With knowledge; and a judgment, sound and 
clear, 

9 



Well disciplined in nature's rules of taste ; 
Discerning to select, arrange, combine. 
From infinite variety, and still 
To nature true ; and guide withal, hard task, 
The sacred, living impetus divine. 
Discreetly through the harmony of song. 
Completed thus, the poet sung ; and age 
To age, enraptured, heard his measures flow; 
Enraptured, for he poured the very fat 
And marrow of existence through his verse, 
And gave the soul, that else, in selfish cold, 
Unwarmed by kindred interest, had lain, 
A roomy life, a glowing relish high, 
A sweet, expansive brotherhood of being — 
Joy answering joy, and sigh responding sigh, 
Through all the fibres of the social heart. 
Observant, sympathetic, sound of head. 
Upon the ocean vast of human thought. 
With passion rough and stormy, venturing out. 
Even as the living billows rolled, he threw 
His numbers over them, seized as they were, 
And to perpetual ages left them fixed, 
To each, a mirror of itself displayed ; 
Despair for ever lowering dark on Sin, 
And happiness on Virtue smiling fair. 

He was the minister of fame, and gave 
To whom he would renown: nor missed himself— 
Although despising much the idiot roar 
Of popular applause, that sudden, oft. 
Unnaturally turning, whom it nursed 
Itself devoured — the lasting fame, the praise 
Of God and holy men, to excellence given. 
Yet less he sought his own renown, than wished 
To have the eternal images of truth 
And beauty, pictured in his verse, admired. 
'Twas these, taking immortal shape and form 
Beneath his eye, that charmed his midnight watch, 
And oft his soul with awful transports shook 
Of happiness, unfelt by other men. 
This was that spell, that sorcery, which bound 
The poet to the lyre, and would not let 
Him go; that hidden mystery of joy, 
Which made him sing in spite of fortune's worst; 
And was, at once, both motive and reward. 

Nor now among the choral harps, in this 
The native cUme of song, are those unknown. 
With higher note ascending, who, below, 
In holy ardour, aimed at lofty strains. 
True fame is never lost: many, whose names 
Were honoured much on earth, are famous here 
For poetry, and, with arch-angel harps. 
Hold no unequal rivalry in song; 
Leading the choirs of heaven, in numbers high, 
In numbers ever sweet and ever new. 

Behold them yonder, where the river pure 
Flows warbling down before the throne of God ; 
A.nd, shading on each side, the tree of life 
Spreads its unfading boughs! — See how they shine, 
In garments white, quaffing deep draughts of love, 



68 



THE COURSE OP TIME. 



And harping on their harps, new harmonies 
Preparing for the ear of God, Most High ! 

But why should I, of individual worth, 
Of individual glory, longer singl 
No true believer was, that day, obscure ; 
No holy soul but had enough of joy; 
No pious wish without its full reward. 
Who in the Father and the Son believed, 
With faith that wrought by love to holy deeds, 
And purified the heart, none trembled there, 
Nor had by earthly guise his rank concealed ; 
Whether, unknown, he tilled the ground remote, 
Observant of the seasons, and adored 
God in the promise, yearly verified. 
Of seed-time, harvest, summer, winter, day 
And night, returning duly at the time 
Appointed ; or, on the shadowy mountain side. 
Worshipped at dewy eve, watching his flocks ; 
Or, trading, saw the wonders of the deep. 
And as the needle to the starry Pole 
Turned constantly, so he his heart to God; 
Or else, in servitude severe, was taught 
To break the bonds of sin ; or, begging, learned 
To trust the Providence that fed the raven, 
And clothed the lily with her annual gown. 

Most numerous, indeed, among the saved, 
And many, too, not least illustrious, shone 
The men who had no name on earth. Eclipsed*, 
By lowly circumstance, they lived unknown, 
Like stream that in the desert warbled clear, 
Still nursing, as it goes, the herb and flower, 
Though never seen ; or like the star, retired 
In soUtudes of ether, far beyond 
All sight, not of essential splendour less, 
.-Though shining unobserved. None saw their pure 
t)evotion, none their tears, their faith, and love, 
Which burned within them, both to God and 

man, — 
None saw but God. He, in his bottle, all 
Their tears preserved, and every holy wish 
Wrote in his book ; and, not as they had done, 
But as they wished with all their heart to do, 
Arrayed them now in glory, and displayed, — 
No longer hid by coarse, uncourtly garb, — 
In lustre equal to their inward worth. 

Man's time was passed, and his eternity 
Begun. No fear remained of change. The youth. 
Who, in the glowing morn of vigorous life, 
High-reaching after great religious deeds. 
Was suddenly cut off, with all his hopes 
In sunny bloom, and unaccomplished left 
His withered aims, — saw everlasting days. 
Before him, dawning rise, in which to achieve 
All glorious things, and get himself the name 
That jealous Death too soon forbade on earth. 

Old things had passed away, and all was new; 
And yet, of all the new-begun, nought so 
Prodigious difTerence made, in the affairs 
And thoughts of every man, as certainty. 



For doubt, all doubt, was gone, of every kind; 

Doubt that erewhile, beneath the lowest base 

Of mortal reasonings, deepest laid, crept in, 

And made the strongest, best cemented towers 

Of human workmanship, so weakly shake. 

And to their lofty tops so waver still. 

That those who built them, feared their sudden fall. 

But doubt, all doubt, was passed ; and, in its place, 

To every thought that in the heart of man 

Was present, now had come an absolute, 

Unquestionable certainty, which gave 

To each decision of the mind immense 

Importance, raising to its proper height 

The sequent tide of passion, whether joy 

Or grief The good man knew, in very truth. 

That he was saved to all eternity. 

And feared no more ; the bad had proof complete, 

That he was damned for ever ; and believed 

Entirely, that on every wicked soul 

Anguish should come, and wrath, and utter wo. 

Knowledge was much increased, but wisdom 
more. 
The film of Time, that still before the sight 
Of mortal vision danced, and led the best 
Astray, pursuing unsubstantial dreams, 
Had dropped from every eye. Men saw that they 
Had vexed themselves in vain, to understand 
What now no hope to understand remained ; 
That they had often counted evil good, 
And good for ill ; laughed when they should have 

wept. 
And wept, forlorn, when God intended mirth. 
But what, of all their foUies passed, surprised 
Them most, and seemed most totally insane 
And unaccountable, was value set 
On objects of a day, was serious grief 
Or joy for loss or gain of mortal things. 
So utterly impossible it seemed. 
When men their proper interests saw, that aught 
Of terminable kind, that aught, which e'er 
Could die, or cease to be, however named, 
Should make a human soul — a legal heir 
Of everlasting years — rejoice or weep, 
In earnest mood; for nothing now seemed worth 
A thought, but had eternal bearing in't. 

Much truth had been assented to in Time, 
Which never, till this day, had made a due 
Impression on the heart. Take one example. 
Early from heaven it was revealed, and oft 
Repeated in the world, from pulpits preached, 
And penned and read in holy books, that God 
Respected not the persons of mankind. , 

Had this been truly credited and felt. 
The king, in purple robe, had owned, indeed, 
The beggar for his brother ; pride of rank 
And office thawed into paternal love ; 
Oppression feared the day of equal rights. 
Predicted ; covetous extortion kept 
In mind the hour of reckoning, soon to come ; 



BOOK IX. 



69 



And bribed injustice thought of being judged, 
When he should stand on equal foot, beside 
The man he wronged, and surely — nay, 'tis true, 
Most true, beyond all -whispering of doubt, 
That he, who lifted up the reeking scourge, 
Dripping with gore from the slave's back, before 
He struck again, had paused, and seriously 
Of that tribunal thought, where God himself 
Should look him in the face, and ask in wrath, 
"Why didst thou thisl Man! was he not thy 

brother, 
Bone of thy bone, and flesh and blood of thine?" 
But, ah! this truth, by heaven and reason taught, 
Was never fully credited on earth. 
The titled, flattered, lofty men of power, 
Whose wealth brought verdicts of applause for 

deeds 
Of wickedness, could ne'er believe the time 
Should truly come when judgment should proceed 
Impartially against them, and they, too, 
Have no good speaker at the Judge's ear, 
No witnesses to bring them off for gold. 
No power to turn the sentence from its course ; 
And they of low estate, who saw themselves. 
Day after day, despised, and wronged, and mocked. 
Without redress, could scarcely think the day 
Should e'er arrive, when they, in truth, should 

stand 
On perfect level with the potentates 
And princes of the earth, and have their cause 
Examined fairly, and their rights allowed. 
But now this truth was felt, believed and felt, 
That men were really of a common stock. 
That no man ever had been more than man. 

Much prophecy — revealed by holy bards. 
Who sung the will of heaven by Judah's streams — 
Much prophecy, that waited long the scoff 
Of lips uncircumcised, was then fulfilled; 
To the last tittle scrupulously fulfilled. 
It was foretold by those of ancient days, 
A time should come, when wickedness should weep 
Abased ; when every lofty look of man 
Should be bowed down, and all his haughtiness 
Made low; when righteousness alone should lift 
The head in glory, and rejoice at heart ; 
When many, first in splendour and renown, 
Should be most vile ; and many, lowest once. 
And last in Poverty's obscurest nook. 
Highest and first in honour, should be seen. 
Exalted ; and when some, when all the good, 
Should rise to glory and eternal life ; 
And all the bad, lamenting, wake, condemned 
To shame, contempt, and everlasting grief. 

These prophecies had tarried long, so long 
That many wagged the head, and, taunting, asked, 
" When shall they cornel" but asked no more, nor 

mocked : 
For the reproach of prophecy was wiped 
Away, and every word of God found true. 



And, oh ! what change of state, what change of 
rank. 
In that assembly everywhere was seen! 
The humble-hearted laughed, the lofty mourned, 
And every man, according to his works 
Wrought in the body, there took character. 
Thus stood they mixed, all generations stood ! 
Of all mankind, innumerable throng ! 
Great harvest of the grave ! — waiting the will 
Of heaven, attentively and silent all. 
As forest spreading out beneath the calm 
Of evening skies, when even the single leaf 
Is heard distinctly rustle down and fall; 
So silent they, when from above, the sound 
Of rapid wheels approached, and sudderjy 
In heaven appeared a host of angels strong. 
With chariots and with steeds of burning fire ; 
Cherub, and Seraph, Thrones, Dominions. Powers, 
Bright in celestial armour, dazzling, rode. 
And, leading in the front, illustrious shone 
Michael and Gabriel, servants long approved 
In high commission, — girt that day with power, 
Which nought created, man or devil, might 
Resist. Nor waited, gazing, long ; but, quick 
Descending, silently and without song, 
As servants bent to do their master's work, 
To middle air they raised the human race, 
Above the path long travelled by the sun ; 
And as a shepherd from the sheep divides 
The goats; or husbandman, with reaping bands. 
In harvest, separates the precious wheat. 
Selected from the tares ; so did they part 
Mankind, the good and bad, to right and left, 
To meet no more ; these ne'er again to smile, 
Nor those to weep ; these never more to share 
Society of mercy with the saints. 
Nor, henceforth, those to suffer with the vile. 
Strange parting! not for hours, nor days, nor 

months. 
Nor for ten thousand times ten thousand years 
But for a whole eternity ! — though fit. 
And pleasant to the righteous, yet to all 
Strange, and most strangely felt ! The sire, to right 
Retiring, saw the son — sprung from his loins, 
Beloved how dearly once ! but who forgot. 
Too soon, in sin's intoxicating cup. 
The father's warnings and the mother's tears — 
Fall to the left among the reprobate ; 
And sons, redeemed, beheld the fathers, whom 
They loved and honoured once, gathered among 
The wicked. Brothers, sisters, kinsmen, friends; 
Husband and wife, who ate at the same board, 
And under the same roof, united, dwelt, 
From youth to hoary age, bearing the chance 
And change of Time together, parted then 
For evermore. But none, whose friendship grew 
From virtue's pure and everlasting root. 
Took different roads ; these, knit in stricter bonds 
Of amity, embracing, saw no more 



70 



THE COURSE OP TIME. 



Death, with his sithe, stand by ; nor heard the word, 
The bitter word, which closed all earthly friend- 
ships, 
And finished every feast of love — Farewell. 
To all, strange parting ! to the vncked, sad 
And terrible ! New horror seized them, while 
They saw the saints withdrawing, and with them 
All hope of safety, all delay of wrath. 

Beneath a crown of rosy light, — like that 
Which once, in Goshen, on the flocks, and herds, 
And dwellings, smiled, of Jacob, while the land 
Of Nile was dark ; or like the pillar bright 
Of sacred fire, that stood above the sons 
Of Israel, when they camped at midnight by 
The foot of Horeb, or the desert side 
Of Sinai; — now, the righteous took their place, 
All took their place, who ever wished to go 
To heaven, for heaven's own sake. Not one re- 
mained 
Among the accursed, that e'er desired with all 
The heart to be redeemed, that ever sought 
Submissively to do the will of God, 
Howe'er it crossed his own ; or to escape 
Hell, for aught other than its penal fires. 
All took their place, rejoicing, and beheld, 
In centre of the crowTi of golden beams 
That canopied them o'er, these gracious words, 
Blushing with tints of love : " Fear not, my saints." 

To other sight of horrible dismay, 
Jehovah's ministers the wicked drove, 
And left them bound immoveable in chains 
Of Justice. O'er their heads a bowless cloud 
Of indignation hung ; a cloud it was 
Of thick and utter darkness, rolUng, like 
An ocean, tides of livid, pitchy flame; 
With thunders charged, and lightnings ruinous, 
And red with forked vengeance, such as wounds 
The soul ; and full of angry shapes of wrath, 
And eddies whirling with tumultuous fire, 
And forms of terror raving to and fro. 
And monsters, unimagined heretofore 
By guilty men in dreams before their death, 
From horrid to more horrid changing still. 
In hideous movement through that stormy gulf: 
And evermore the Thunders, murmuring, spoke 
From out the darkness, uttering loud these words, 
Which every guilty conscience echoed back : 
" Ye knew your duty, but ye did it not." 
Dread words ! that barred excuse, and threw the 

weight 
Of every man's perdition, on himself. 
Directly home. Dread words! heard then, and 

heard 
For ever through the wastes of Erebus. 
" Ye knew your duty, but ye did it not !" 
These were the words which glowed upon the 

sword. 
Whose vnrath burned fearfully behind the cursed. 
As they were driven away from God to Tophet. 



" Ye knew your duty, but ye did it not I" 
These are the words to which the harps of grief 
Are strung ; and, to the chorus of the damned, 
The rocks of hell repeat them, evermore ; 
Loud echoed through the caverns of despair, 
And poured in thunder on the ear of Wo. 

Nor ruined men alone, beneath that cloud, 
Trembled. There, Satan and his legions stood, 
Satan, the first and eldest sinner, — bound 
For judgment. He, by other name, held once 
Conspicuous rank in heaven among the sons 
Of happiness, rejoicing, day and night ; 
But pride, that was ashamed to bow to God, 
Most high, his bosom filled with hate, his face 
Made black with envy, and in his soul begot 
Thoughts guilty of rebellion 'gainst the throne 
Of the Eternal Father, and the Son, — 
From everlasting built on righteousness. 

Ask not how pride, in one created pure, 
Could grow; or sin without example spring, 
Where holiness alone was sown : esteem't 
Enough, that he, as every being made 
By God, was made entirely holy, had 
The will of God before him set for law 
And regulation of his life, and power 
To do as bid ; but was, meantime, lefl free. 
To prove his worth, his gratitude, his love ; 
How proved besides 7 for how could service done, 
That might not -else have been withheld, evince 
The will to serve, which, rather than the deed, 
God doth require, and virtue counts alone 1 
To stand or fall, to do or leave undone, 
Is reason's lofty privilege, denied 
To all below, by instinct bound to fate, 
Unmeriting, alike, reward or blame. 

Thus free, the Devil chose to disobey 
The will of God, and was thrown out firom hea- 
ven. 
And vrith him all his bad example stained : 
Yet not to utter punishment decreed, 
But left to fill the measure of his sin, 
In tempting and seducing man — too soon, 
Too easily seduced ! And, from the day 
He first set foot on earth, — of rancour full, 
And pride, and hate, and malice, and revenge, — 
He set himself, with most felonious aim 
And helhsh perseverance, to root out 
All good, and in its place to plant all ill ; 
To rub and raze, from all created things. 
The fair and holy portraiture divine, 
And on them to enstamp his features grim ; 
To draw all creatures off from loyalty 
To their Creator, and to make them bow 
The knee to him. Nor failed of great success, 
As populous hell, this day, can testify. 
He held, indeed, large empire in the world, 
Contending proudly with the King of heaven. 
To him temples were built, and sacrifice 
Of costly blood upon his altars flowed ; 



BOOK IX. 



71 



And — what best pleased him, for in show he seem- 
ed 
Then Ukest God — whole nations, bowing, fell 
Before him, worsliipping, and from his lips 
Entreated oracles, which he, by priests, — 
For many were his priests in every age, — 
Answered, though guessing but at future things, 
And erring oft, yet still believed ; so well 
His ignorance, in ambitious phrase, he veiled. 

Nor needs it wonder, that with man once fallen, 
His tempting should succeed. Large was his mind 
And understanding ; though impaired by sin, 
Still large; and constant practice, day and night. 
In cunning, guile, and all hypocrisy, 
From age to age, gave him experience vast 
In sin's dark tactics, such as boyish man, 
Unarmed by strength divine, could ill withstand. 
And well he knew his weaker side ; and still. 
His lures, with baits that pleased the senses, 

busked, 
To his impatient passions offering terms 
Of present joy, and bribing reason's eye 
With earthly wealth, and honours near at hand. 
Nor failed to misadvise his future hope 
And faith, by false, unkerneled promises 
Of heavens of sensual gluttony and love. 
That suited best their grosser appetites. 
Into the sinner's heart, who lived secure, 
And feared him least, he entered at his will. 
But chief, he chose his residence in courts 
And conclaves, stirring princes up to acts 
Of blood and tyranny ; and moving i)riests 
To barter truth, and swap the souls of men 
For lusty benefices, and address 
Of lofty sounding. Nor the saints elect. 
Who walked with God in virtue's path sublime. 
Did he not sometimes venture to molest ; 
In dreams and moments of unguarded thought. 
Suggesting guilty doubts and fears, that God 
Would disappoint their hope ; and in their way 
Bestrewing pleasures, tongucd so sweet, and so 
In holy garb arrayed, that many stooped, 
Believing them of heavenly sort, and fell ; 
And to their high professions, brought disgrace 
And scandal ; to themselves, thereafter long 
And bitter nights of sore repentance, vexed 
With shame, unwonted sorrow, and remorse. 
And more they should have fallen, and more have 

wept. 
Had not their guardian angels, who, by God 
Commissioned, stood beside them in the hour 
Of danger, whether craft, or fierce attack. 
To Satan's deepest skill opposing skill 
More deep, and to his strongest arm, an arm 
More strong, — upborne them in their hands, and 

filled 
Their souls with all discernment, quick, to pierce 
His stratagems and fairest shows of sin. 
Now, like a roaring lion, up and down 



The world, destroying, though unseen, he raged ; 
And now, retiring back to Tartarus, 
Far back, beneath the thick of guiltiest dark, 
Where night ne'er heard of day, in council grim. 
He sat with ministers whose thoughts were 

damned. 
And there such plans devised, as, had not God 
Checked and restrained, had added earth entire 
To hell, and uninhabited left heaven, 
Jehovah unadored. Nor unsevere, 
Even then, his punishment deserved. The Worm 
That never dies, coiled in his bosom, gnawed 
Perpetually ; sin after sin brought pang 
Succeeding pang ; and, now and then, the bolts 
Of Zion's King, vindictive, smote his soul 
With fiery wo to blast his proud designs; 
And gave him earnest of the wrath to come. 
And chief, when on the cross, Messiah said, 
" 'Tis finished," did the edge of vengeance smite 
Him through, and all his gloomy legions touch 
With nevv despair. But yet, to be the first 
In mischief, to have armies at his call, 
To hold dispute with God, in days of Time, 
His pride and malice fed, and bore him up 
Above the worst of ruin. Still, to plan 
And act great deeds, though wicked, brought at 

least 
The recompense which nature hath attached 
To all activity, and aim pursued 
With perseverance, good, or bad; for as, 
By nature's laws, immutable and just. 
Enjoyment stops where indolence begins ; 
And purposeless, to-morrow borrowing sloth. 
Itself, heaps on its shoulders loads of wo, 
Too heavy to be borne ; so industry — 
To meditate, to plan, resolve, perform. 
Which in itself is good — as surely brings 
Reward of good, no matter what be done : 
And such reward the Devil had, as long 
As the decrees eternal gave him space 
To work. But now, all action ceased; his hope 
Of doing evil perished quite; his pride, 
His courage, failed him ; and beneath that cloud. 
Which hung its central terrors o'er his head, 
With all his angels, he, for sentence, stood. 
And rolled his eyes around, that uttered guilt 
And wo, in horrible perfection joined. 
As he had been the chief and leader, long. 
Of the apostate crew that warred with God 
And hohness ; so now, among the bad. 
Lowest, and most forlorn, and trembling most, 
With all iniquity deformed and foul. 
With all perdition ruinous and dark. 
He stood, — example awful of the wrath 
Of God! sad mark, to which all sin must fall!-- 
And made, on every side, so black a hell. 
That spirits, used to night and misery. 
To distance drew, and looked another way; 
And from their golden cloud, far off, the saints 



72 



THE COURSE OF TIME. 



Saw round him darkness grow more dark, and 

heard 
The impatient thunderbolts, with deadliest crash 
And frequentest, break o'er his head, — the sign 
That Satan, there, the vilest sinner, stood. 
Ah me! what eyes were there beneath that 

cloud ! 
Eyes of despair, final and certain! eyes 
That looked, and looked, and saw, where'er they 

looked, 
Intermiijable darkness ! utter wo ! 

'Twas pitiful to see the early flower 
Nipped by the unfeeling frost, just when it rose, 
Lovely in youth, and put its beauties on. 
'Twas pitiful to see the hopes of all 
The year, the yellow harvest, made a heap. 
By rains of judgment; or by torrents swept. 
With flocks and cattle, down the raging flood ; 
Or scattered by the winnowing winds, that bore, 
Upon their angry wings, the wrath of heaven. 
Sad was the field, where, yesterday, was heard 
The roar of war; and sad the sight of maid, 
Of mother, widow, sister, daughter, wife. 
Stooping and weeping over senseless, cold, 
Defaced, and mangled lumps of breathless earth. 
Which had been husbands, fathers, brothers, sons, 
And lovers, when that morning's sun arose. 
'Twas sad to see the wonted seat of friend 
Removed by death ; and sad to visit scenes. 
When old, where, in the smiling morn of Hfe, 
Lived many, who both knew and loved us much, 
And they all gone, dead, or dispersed abroad ; 
And stranger faces seen among their hills. 
'Twas sad to see the little orphan babe 
Weeping and sobbing on its mother's grave. 
'Twas pitiful to see an old, forlorn. 
Decrepit, withered wretch, unhoused, unclad, 
Starving to death with poverty and cold. 
'Twas pitiful to see a blooming bride. 
That promise gave of many a happy year. 
Touched by decay, turn pale, and waste, and die. 
'Twas pitiful to hear the murderous thrust 
Of ruffian's blade that sought the life entire. 
'Twas sad to hear the blood come gurgling forth 
From out the throat of the wild suicide. 
Sad was the sight of widowed, childless age 
Weeping. — I saw it once. Wrinkled with time, 
And hoary with the dust of years, an old 
And worthy man came to his humble roof. 
Tottering and slow, and on the threshold stood. 
No foot, no voice, was heard within. None came 
To meet him, where he oft had met a wife. 
And sons, and daughters, glad at his return ; 
None came to meet him ; for that day had seen 
The old man lay, within the narrow house, 
The last of all his family ; and now 
He stood in solitude, in solitude 
Wide as the world ; for all, that made to him 
Society, had fled beyond its bounds. 



Wherever strayed his aimless eye, there lay 
The wreck of some fond hope, that touched his 

soul 
With bitter thoughts, and told him all was passed. 
His lonely cot was silent, and he looked 
As if he could not enter. On his staff. 
Bending, he leaned ; and from his weary eye, 
Distressing sight ! a single tear-drop wept. 
None followed, for the fount of tears was dry. 
Alone and last, it fell from wrinkle down 
To wrinkle, till it lost itself, drunk by 
The veithered cheek, on which again no smile 
Should come, or drop of tenderness be seen. 
This sight was very pitiful; but one 
Was sadder still, the saddest seen in Time. 
A man to-day, the glory of his kind. 
In reason clear, in understanding large, 
In judgment sound, in fancy quick, in hope 
Abundant, and in promise, like a field 
Well cultured, and refreshed with dews from 

God; 
To-morrow, chained, and raving mad, and whipped 
By servile hands ; sitting on dismal straw. 
And gnashing with his teeth against the chain, 
The iron chain, that bound him hand and foot; 
And trying whiles to send his glaring eye 
Beyond the wide circumference of his wo ; 
Or, humbling more, more miserable still, 
Giving an idiot laugh that served to show 
The blasted scenery of his horrid face ; 
Calling the straw his sceptre, and the stone. 
On which he, pinioned, sat, his royal throne. 
Poor, poor, poor man ! fallen far below the brute ! 
His reason strove in vain to find her way, 
Lost in the stormy desert of his brain ; 
And, being active still, she wrought all strange, 
Fantastic, execrable, monstrous things. 
All these were sad, and thousands more, that 

sleep 
Forgotten beneath the funeral pall of Time 
And bards, as well became, bewailed them much 
With doleful instruments of weeping song. 
But what were these 1 What might be worse had 

in't. 
However small, some grains of happiness; 
And man ne'er drank a cup of earthly sort, 
That might not hold another drop of gall; 
Or, in his deepest sorrow, laid his head 
Upon a pillow, set so close with thorns. 
That might not hold another prickle still. 
Accordingly, the saddest human look 
Had hope in't ; faint, indeed, but still 'twas hope. 
But why excuse the misery of earth? 
Say it was dismal, cold, and dark, and deep. 
Beyond the utterance of strongest words ; 
But say that none remembered it, who saw 
The eye of beings damned for evermore. 
Rolling, and rolling, rolling still in vain, 
To find some ray, to see beyond the gulf 



BOOK X. 



73 



Of an unavenued, fierce, fiery, hot, 

Interminable, dark Futurity ! 

And rolling still, and rolling still in vain ! 

Thus stood the reprobate beneath the shade 
Of terror, and beneath the crown of love, 
The good ; and there was silence in the vault 
Of heaven ; and as they stood and listened, they 

heard 
Afar to left, among the utter dark. 
Hell rolling o'er his waves of burning fire, 
And thundering through his caverns, empty then 
As if he preparation made, to act 
The final vengeance of the fiery Lamb. 
And there was heard, coming from out the Pit, 
The hollow wailing of Eternal Death, 
And horrid cry of the Undying Worm. 

The wicked paler turned, and scarce the good 
Their colour kept ; but were not long dismayed. 
That moment, in the heavens, hovsr wondrous fair ! 
The angel of Mercy stood, and, on the bad 
Turning his back, over the ransomed threw 
His bow, bedropped with imagery of love, 
And promises on which their faith reclined. 
Throughout, deep, breathless silence reigned 

again ; 
And on the circuit of the upper spheres, 
A glorious seraph stood, and cried aloud, 
That every ear of man and devil heard, 
" Him that is filthy, let be filthy still ; 
Him that is holy, let be holy still." 
And, suddenly, another squadron bright. 
Of high arch-angel glory, stooping, brought 
A marvellous bow, — one base upon the Cross, 
The other on the shoulder of tlie Bear, 
They placed, — from south to north, spanning the 

heavens. 
And on each hand dividing good and bad, — 
Who read, on either side, these burning words, 
Which ran along the arch in living fire, 
And wanted not to be believed in full : 
" As ye have sown, so shall ye reap this day." 



BOOK X. 

God of my fathers ! holy, just, and good ! 
My God! my Father! my unfailing Hope! 
Xehovah ! let the incense of my praise, 
Accepted, burn before thy mercy seat. 
And in thy presence burn, both day and night. 
Maker! Preserver! my Redeemer! Go J! 
Whom have I in the heavens but Thee alone? 
On earth, but Thee, whom should I praise, whom 

love'? 
For thou hast brought me hitherto, upheld 
By thy omnipotence ; and from thy grace, 
Unbought, unmerited, though not unsought — 
The wells of thy salvation, hast refreshed 



My spirit, watering it, at morn and even; 

And, by thy Spirit, which thou freely givest 

To whom thou wilt, hast led by venturous song, 

Over the vale and mountain tract, the light 

And shade of man; into the burning deep 

Descending now, and now circling the mount. 

Where highest sits Divinity enthroned ; 

Rolling along the tide of fluent thought. 

The tide of moral, natural, divine : 

Gazing on past and present, and again, 

On rapid pinion borne, outstripping Time, 

In long excursion, wandering through the groves 

Unfading, and the endless avenues. 

That shade the landscape of Eternity ; 

And talking there with holy angels met, 

And future men, in glorious vision seen ! 

Nor unrewarded have 1 watched at night, 

And heard the drowsy sound of neighbouring 

sleep. 
New thought, new imagery, new scenes of bliss 
And glory, unrehearsed by mortal tongue. 
Which, unrevealcd, I, trcnibhng, turned and left. 
Bursting at once upon my ravished eye, — 
With joy unspeakable have filled my soul, 
And made my cup run over with delight : 
Though in my face the blasts of adverse winds, 
While boldly circumnavigating man. 
Winds seeming adverse, though perhaps not so, 
Have beat severely ; disregarded beat. 
When I, behind me, heard the voice of God, 
And his proj)itious Spirit say. Fear not! 

God of my fathei's I ever present God ! 
This ofl'cring, more, inspire, sustain, accept; 
Highest, if numbers answer to the theme; 
Best answering, if thy Spirit dictate most. 
Jehovah! breathe upon my soul; my heart 
Enlarge; my faith increase ; increase my hope. 
My thoughts exalt; my fancy sanctify. 
And all my passions, that I near thy throne 
May venture, unreproved; and sing the day. 
Which none unholy ought to name, the Day 
Of Judgment! greatest day, passed or to come ! 
Day! which, — deny me what thou wilt, deny 
Me home, or friend, or honourable name, — 
Thy mercy grant, I, thoroughly prepared. 
With comely garment of redeeming love. 
May meet, and have my Judge for Advocate. 

Come, Gracious Influence, Breath of the Lord 
And touch me trembling, as thou touched the man. 
Greatly beloved, when he in vision saw. 
By Ulai's stream, the Ancient sit ; and talked 
With Gabriel, to his prayer swiftly sent. 
At evening sacrifice. Hold my right hand. 
Almighty ! hear me, for I ask through Him, 
Whom thou hast heard, whom thou wilt always 

hear, 
Thy Son, our interceding Great High Priest ! 
Reveal the future, let the years to come 
Pass by, and open my ear to hear the harp, 



74 



THE COURSE OF TIME. 



n 



The prophet harp, whose wisdom I repeat, 
Interpreting the voice of distant song ; — 
Which thus again resumes the lofty verse, 
Loftiest, if I interpret faitlifully 
The holy numbers which my spirit bears. 

Thus came the day, the Harp again began, 
Tlie day that many thought should never come, 
That all the wicked wished should never come, 
That all the righteous had expected long : 
Day greatly feared, and yet too little feared. 
By him who feared it most ; day laughed at much 
By the profane, the trembling day of all 
Who laughed ; day when all shadows passed, all 

dreams ; 
When substance, when reality commenced; 
Last day of lying, final day of all 
Deceit, all knavery, all quackish phrase ; 
Ender of all disputing, of all mirth 
Ungodly, of all loud and boasting speech ; 
Judge of all judgments, Judge of every judge, 
Adjuster of all causes, rights and wrongs ; 
Day oft appealed to, and appealed to oft 
By those who saw its dawn with saddest heart ; 
Day most magnificent in Fancy's range, 
Whence she returned, confounded, trembling, 

pale. 
With overmuch of glory faint and blind ; 
Day most important held, prepared for most, 
By every rational, wise, and holy man ; 
Day of eternal gain, for worldly loss ; 
Day of eternal loss for worldly gain ; 
Great day of terror, vengeance, wo, despair ; 
Revealer of all seprets, thoughts, desires; 
Rein-trying, heart- investigating day, 
That stood between Eternity and Time, 
Reviewed all past, determined all to come, 
And bound all destinies for evermore ; 
Behoving day of unbelief; great day, 
That set in proper light the affairs of earth, 
And justified the Government Divine ; 
Great day ! — what can we more 1 what should we 

more '? 
Great triumph day of God's incarnate Son ! 
Great day of glory to the Almighty God ! 
Day ! whence the everlasting years begin 
Their date, new era in eternity. 
And oft referred to in the song of heaven ! 

Thus stood the apostate, thus the ransomed 
stood, 
Those held by justice fast, and these by love, 
Reading the fiery scutcheonry, that blazed 
On high, upon the great celestial bow : 
"As ye have sown, so shall ye reap this day." 
All read, all understood, and all believed. 
Convinced of judgment, righteousness, and sin. 

Meantime the universe throughout was still. 
The cope, above and round about, was calm ; 
And motionless, beneath them, lay the Earth, 
Silent and sad, as one that sentence waits, 



For flagrant crime ; — when suddenly was hoard, 
Behind the azure vaulting of the sky, 
Above, and far remote from reach of sight. 
The sound of trumpets, and the sound of crowds, 
And prancing steeds, and rapid chariot wheels, 
That from four quarters rolled, and seemed in 

haste, 
Assembling at some place of rendezvous ; 
And so they seemed to roll, with furious speed, 
As if none meant to be behind the first. 
Nor seemed alone : that day, the golden trump, 
Whose voice, from centre to circumference 
Of all created things, is heard distinct, 
God had bid Michael sound, to summon all 
The hosts of bliss to presence of their King ; 
And, all the morning, millions infinite. 
That millions governed each. Dominions, Powers 
Thrones, Principalities, with all their hosts. 
Had been arriving, near the capital. 
And royal city, New Jerusalem, 
From heaven's remotest bounds. Nor yet from 

heaven 
Alone came they, that day. The world's around, 
Or neighbouring nearest, on the verge of night. 
Emptied, sent forth their whole inhabitants. 
All tribes of being came, of every name. 
From every coast, filling Jehovah's courts. 
From morn till mid-day, in the squadrons poured 
Immense, along the bright celestial roads. 
Swiftly they rode, for love unspeakable, 
To God, and to Messiah, Prince of Peace, 
Drew them, and made obedience haste to be 
Approved. And now, before the Eternal Throne, 
Brighter, that day, than when the Son prepared 
To overthrow the seraphim rebelled, — 
And circling round the mount of Deity 
Upon the sea of glass, all round about, 
And down the borders of the stream of life, 
And over all the plains of Paradise, 
For many a league of heavenly measurement, — 
Assembled, stood the immortal multitudes. 
Millions, above all number infinite, 
The nations of the blessed. Distinguished each. 
By chief of goodly stature blazing far; 
By various garb, and flag of various hue 
Streaming through heaven from standard lifted 

high— 
The arms and imagery of thousand worlds. 
Distinguished each, but all arrayed complete. 
In armour bright, of helmet, shield, and sword ; 
And mounted all in chariots of fire. 
A military throng, blent, not confused; 
As soldiers on some day of great review, 
Burning in splendour of refulgent gold, 
And ornament, on purpose, long devised 
For this expected day. Distinguished each, 
But all accoutred as became their Lord, 
And high occasion; all in holiness, 
The livery of the soldiery of God, 



BOOK X. 



75 



Vested; and shining all with perfect bliss, 
The wages that his faithful servants win. 

Thus stood they numberless around tlic mount 
Of prcaence; and, adoring, waited, hushed 
In deepest silence, for the voice of God. 
That moment, all the Sacred Hill on high 
Burned, terrible with glory, and, behind 
The uncreated lustre, hid the Lamb, 
Invisible; when, from the radiant cloud, 
This voice, addressing all the hosts of heaven, 
Proceeded, not in words as we converse. 
Each with his fellow, but in language such 
As God doth use, imparting, without phrase 
Successive, what, in speech of creatures, seems 
Long narrative, though long, yet losing much 
In feeble symbols of the thought Divine. 

My servants long approved, my faithful sons, 
Angels of glory, Thrones, Dominions, Powers, 
Well pleased, this morning, I have seen the speed 
Of your obedience, gathering round my throne, 
In order due, and well-becoming garb; 
Illustrious, as I see, beyond your wont. 
As was my wish to glorify this day: 
And now, what your assembling means, attend. 

This day concludes the destiny of man. 
The hour, appointed from eternity. 
To judge the earth in righteousness, is come; 
To end the war of Sin, that long has fought. 
Permitted, against the sword of Holiness; 
To give to men and devils, as their works. 
Recorded in my all-remembering book, 
I find ; good to the good, and great reward 
Of everlasting honour, joy, and peace, 
Before my presence here for evermore ; 
And to the evil, as their sins provoke. 
Eternal recompense of shame and wo. 
Cast out beyond the bounds of light and love. 

Long have I stood, as ye, my sons, well know, 
Between the cherubim, and stretched my arms 
Of mercy out, inviting all to come 
To mc, and live ; my bowels long have moved 
With great compassion ; and my justice passed 
Transgression by, and not imputed sin. 
Long here, upon my everlasting throne, 
I have beheld my love and mercy scorned ; 
Have seen my laws despised, my name blas- 
phemed, 
My providence accused, my gracious plans 
Opposed ; and long, too long, have I beheld 
The wicked triumph, and my saints reproached 
Maliciously, while on my altars lie. 
Unanswered still, their prayers and their tears. 
That seek my coming, wearied with delay ; 
And long. Disorder in my moral reign 
Has waked rebelliously, disturbed the peace 
Of my eternal government, and wrought 
Confusion, spreading far and wide, among 
My works inferior, which groan to be 



Released. Nor long shall groan. The hour of 

grace. 
The final hour of grace, is fully passe*! ; 
The time accepted for repentance, faith, 
And pardon, is irrevocably passed ; 
And Justice, unaccompanied, as wont. 
With Mercy, now goes forth, to give to all 
According to their deeds. Justice alone, — 
For why should Mercy any more be joined 1 
Whatlmth not mercy, mixed with judgment, done, 
That mercy, mixed with judgment and reproof, 
Could do 1 Did I not revelation make. 
Plainly and clearly, of my will entire 1 
Before them set my holy law, and gave 
Them knowledge, wisdom, prowess to obey, 
And win, by self-wrought works, eternal lifel 
Rebelled, did I not send them terms of peace, 
Which, not my justice, but my mercy asked 1 — 
Terms, costly to my well-beloved Son ; 
To them, gratuitous, exacting faith 
Alone for pardon, works evincing faith 1 
Have I not early risen, and sent my seers. 
Prophets, apostles, teachers, ministers. 
With signs and wonders, working in my name ? 
Have I not still, from age to age, raised up 
As I saw needful, great, religious men, 
Gifted by me with large capacity. 
And by my arm omnipotent upheld. 
To pour the numbers of my mercy forth, 
And roll my judgments on the ear of man? 
And lastly, when the promised hour was come, — 
What more could most abundant mercy do 1 — 
Did I not send Immanuel forth, my Son, 
Only begotten, to purchase, by his blood, 
As many as believed upon his name 7 
Did he not die to give repentance, such 
As I accept, and pardon of all sins ? 
Has he not taught, beseeched, and shed abroad 
The Spirit unconfined, and given at times 
Example fierce of wrath and judgment, poured 
Vindictively on nations guilty long 1 
What means of reformation, that my Son 
Has left behind, untried 1 what plainer words, 
What arguments more strong, as yet remain 1 
Did he not tell them, with his lips of truth. 
The righteousshould be saved, the wicked damned? 
And has he not, awake both day and night. 
Here interceded with prevailing voice. 
At my right hand, pleading his precious blood 
Which magnified my holy law, and bought, 
For all who wished, perpetual righteousness? 
And have not you, my faithful servants, all 
Been frequent forth, obedient to my will, 
With messages of mercy and of love. 
Administering my gifts to sinful man ? 
And have not all my mercy, all my love, 
Been sealed and stamped with signature of heaven? 
By proof of wonders, miracles, and signs 



76 



THE COURSE OF TIME. 



Attested, and. attested more by truth 
Divine, inherent in the tidings sent 1 
This day declares the consequence of all. 
Some have believed, are sanctified, and saved, 
Prepared for dweUing in this holy place, 
In these their mansions, built before my face ; 
And nov/, beneath a crown of golden light. 
Beyond our w^all, at place of judgment, they, 
Expecting, wait the promised, due reward. 
The others stand with Satan bound in chains, 
The others, who refused to be redeemed : 
They stand, unsanctified, unpardoned, sad, 
Waiting the sentence that shall fix their wo. 
The others, who refused to be redeemed ; 
For all had grace sufficient to believe. 
All who my gospel heard ; and none, who heard 
It not, shall by its law, this day, be tried. 
Necessity of sinning, my decrees 
Imposed on none ; but rather, all inclined 
To holiness ; and grace was bountiful. 
Abundant, overflowing with my word ; 
My word of life and peace, which to all men, 
Who shall or stand or fall, by law revealed, 
Was offered freely, as 'twas freely sent, 
Without all money, and without all price. 
Thus they have all, by willing act, despised 
Me, and my Son, and sanctifying Spirit. 
But now, no longer shall they mock or scorn. 
The day of grace and mercy is complete, 
And Godhead from their misery absolved. 

So saying. He, the Father infinite. 
Turning, addressed Messiah, where he sat, 
Exalted gloriously, at his right hand. 
This day belongs to justice and to thee, 
Eternal Son, thy right for service done, 
Abundantly fulfilling all my will ; 
By promise thine, from all eternity. 
Made in the ancient Covenant of Grace ; 
And thine, as most befitting, since in thee 
Divine and human meet, impartial Judge, 
Consulting thus the interest of both. 
Go then, my Son, divine simihtude. 
Image express of Deity unseen. 
The book of my remembrance take; and take 
The golden crowns of fife, due to the saints; 
And take the seven last thunders ruinous ; 
Thy armour take ; gird on thy sword, thy sword 
Of justice ultimate, reserved, till now, 
Unsheathed, in the eternal armoury; 
And mount the living chariot of God. 
Thou goest not now, as once, to Calvary, 
To he insulted, buffeted, and slain ; 
Thou goest not now, with battle and the voice 
Of war, as once against the rebel hosts. 
Thou goest a Judge, and findst the guilty bound ; 
Thou goest to prove, condemn, acquit, reward. 
Not unaccompanied ; all these, my saints, 
Go with thee, glorious retinue, to sing 
1'hy triumph, and participate thy joy; 



And I, the Omnipresent, with thee go: 
And with thee all the glory of my throne. 

Thus said the Father ; and the Son beloved, 
Omnipotent, Omniscient, Fellow God, 
Arose, resplendent with Divinity; 
And He the book of God's remembrance took; 
And took the seven last thunders ruinous ; 
And took the crowns of life, due to the saints; 
His armour took ; girt on his sword, his sword 
Of justice ultimate, reserved, till now, 
Unsheathed, in the eternal armoury; 
And up the fiving chariot of God 
Ascended, signifying all complete. 

And now the Trump, of wondrous melody, 
By man or angel never heard before, 
Sounded with thunder, and the march began. 
Not swift, as cavalcade, on battle bent 
But, as became procession of a judge, 
Solemn, magnificent, majestic, slow ; 
Moving subUme with glory infinite, 
And numbers infinite, and awful song. 
They passed the gate of heaven, which, many a 

league. 
Opened either way, to let the glory forth 
Of this great march. And now, the sons of men 
Beheld their coming, which, before, they heard 
Beheld the glorious countenance of God ! 
All light was swallowed up, all objects seen 
Faded ; and the Incarnate, visible 
Alone, held every eye upon him fixed ; 
The wicked saw his majesty severe ; 
And those who pierced Him saw his face with 

clouds 
Of glory circled round, essential bright ! 
And to the rocks and mountains called in vain, 
To hide them from the fierceness of his wrath : 
Almighty power their flight restrained, and held 
Them bound immoveable before the bar. 

The righteous, undismayed and bold — best 

proof, 
This day, of fortitude sincere, — sustained 
By inward faith, with acclamations loud. 
Received the coming of the Son of Man ; 
And, drawn by love, inclined to his approach. 
Moving to meet the brightness of his face. 

Meantime, 'tween good and bad, the Judge his 

wheels 
Stayed, and, ascending, sat upon the great 
White Throne, that morning founded there by 

power 
Omnipotent, and built on righteousness 
And truth. Behind, before, on every side, 
In native and reflected blaze of bright, 
Celestial equipage, the myriads stood. 
That with his marching came ; rank above rank. 
Rank above rank, with shield and flaming sword. 
'Twas silence all ! and quick, on right and left, 
A mighty angel spread the book of God's 
Remembrance ; and, with conscience now sincere, 



BOOK X. 



77 



All men compared the record, written there 
By finger of Omniscience ; and received 
Their sentence, in themselves, of joy or wo; 
Condemned or justified, while yet the Judge 
Waited, as if to let them prove themselves. 
The righteous, in the book of life displayed, 
Rejoicing, read their names; rejoicing, read 
Their faith for righteousness received, and deeds 
Of hoUness, as proof of faith complete. 
The wicked, in the book of endless death, 
Spread out to left, bewailing, read their names ; 
And read beneath them. Unbelief, and fruit 
Of unbelief, vile, unrepented deeds, 
Now unrepentable for evermore ; 
And gave approval of the wo affixed. 

This done, the Omnipotent, Omniscient Judge, 
Rose infinite, the sentence to pronounce, 
The sentence of eternal wo or bliss ! 
All glory heretofore seen or conceived, 
All majesty, annihilated, dropped, 
That moment, from remembrance, and was lost; 
And silence, deepest hitherto esteemed. 
Seemed noisy to the stillness of this hour. 
Comparisons I seek not, nor should find, 
If sought. That silence, which all being held. 
When God's Almighty Son, from off the walls 
Of heaven the rebel angels threw, accursed. 
So still, that all creation heard their fall 
Distinctly, in the lake of burning fire, — 
Was now forgotten, and every silence else. 
All being rational, created then, 
Around the judgment seat, intensely listened. 
No creature breathed. Man, angel, devil, stood 
And listened ; the spheres stood still, and every star 
Stood still, and listened ; and every particle, 
Remotest in the womb of matter, stood, 
Bending to hear, devotional and still. 
And thus upon the wicked, first, the Judge 
Pronounced the sentence, written before of old : 
" Depart from me, ye cursed, into the fire. 
Prepared eternal in the Gulf of Hell, 
Where ye shall weep and wail for evermore. 
Reaping the harvest which your sins have sown.'' 
— " So saying, God grew dark with utter wrath ; 
And, drawing now the sword, undrawn before. 
Which through the range of infinite, all around, 
A gleam of fiery indignation threw. 
He lifted up his hand omnipotent. 
And down among the damned the burning edge 
Plunged; and from forth his arrowy quiver sent. 
Emptied, the seven last thunders ruinous. 
Which, entering, withered all their souls with fire. 
Then first was vengeance, first was ruin seen ! 
Red, unrestrained, vindictive, final, fierce ! 
They, howling, fled to west among the dark ; 
But fled not these the terrors of the Lord. 
Pursued, and driven beyond the Gulf, which frowns 
Impassable, between the good and bad. 
And downward far remote to left, oppressed 



And scorched with the avenging fires, begun 

Burning within them, — they upon the verge 

Of Erebus, a moment, pausing stood. 

And saw, below, the unfathomable lake. 

Tossing with tides of dark, tempestuous wrath ; 

And would have looked behind ; but greater wrath, 

Behind, forbade, which now no respite gave 

To final misery. God, in the grasp 

Of his Almighty strength, took them upraised, 

And threw them down, into the yawning pit 

Of bottomless perdition, ruined, damned. 

Fast bound in chains of darkness evermore; 

And Second Death, and the Undying Worm, 

Opening their horrid jaws, with hideous yell, 

Falling, received their everlasting prey. 

A groan returned, as down they sunk, and sunk. 

And ever sunk, among the utter dark ! 

A groan returned! the righteous heard the groan, 

The groan of all the reprobate, when first 

They felt damnation sure ! and heard Hell close ! 

And heard Jehovah, and his love retire ! 

A groan returned ! the righteous heard the groan, 

As if all misery, all sorrow, grief. 

All pain, all anguish, all despair, which all 

Have suffered, or shall feel, from first to last 

Eternity, had gathered to one pang. 

And issued in one groan of boundless wo ! 

And now the wall of hell, the outer wall. 
First gateless then, closed round them ; that which 

thou 
Hast seen, of fiery adamant, emblazed 
With hideous imagery, above all hope. 
Above all flight of fancy, burning high ; 
And guarded evermore, by Justice, turned 
To Wrath, that hears, unmoved, the endless groan 
Of those wasting within ; and sees, unmoved. 
The endless tear of vain repentance fall. 

Nor ask if these shall ever be redeemed. 
They never shall ! Not God, but their own sin, 
Condemns them. What could be done, as thou 

hast heard. 
Has been already done ; all has been tried 
That wisdom infinite, and boundless grace. 
Working together, could devise ; and all 
Has failed. Why now succeed 1 Though God 

should stoop. 
Inviting still, and send his Only Son 
To oflcr grace in hell, the pride, that first 
Refused, would still refu.se ; the unbelief, 
Still unbelieving, would deride and mock ; 
Nay more, refuse, deride, and mock; for sin. 
Increasing still, and growing, day and night. 
Into the essence of the soul, become 
All sin, makes what in time seemed probable, — 
Seemed probable, since God invited then, — 
For ever now impossible. Thus they. 
According to the eternal laws which bind 
All creatures, bind the Uncreated One, 
Though we name not the scntcjicc of the Judge,- 



78 



THE COURSE OF TIME. 



Must daily grow in sin and punishment, 
Made by themf dves their necessary lot, 
Unchangeable to all eternity. 

What lot ! what choice ! I sing not, can not sing, 
Here, highest seraphs tremble on the lyre, 
And made a sudden pause ! — but thou hast seen. 
And here, the bard, a moment, held his hand, 
As one who saw more of that horrid wo 
Than words could utter ; and again resumed. 

Nor yet had vengeance done. The guilty Earth, 
Inanimate, debased, and stained by sin. 
Seat of rebellion, of corruption, long, 
And tainted with mortality throughout, — 
God sentenced next; and sent tlie final fires 
Of ruin forth, to burn and to destroy. 
The saints its burning saw, and thou mayst see. 
Look yonder, round the lofty golden walls 
And galleries of New Jerusalem, 
Among the imagery of wonders passed ; 
Look near the southern gate ; look, and behold — 
On spacious canvas, touched with living hues — 
The Conflagration of the ancient earth, 
The handy work of high archangel, drawn 
From memory of what he saw, that day. 
See ! how the mountains, how the valleys burn ; 
The Andes burn, the Alps, the Appenines, 
Taurus and Atlas ; all the islands burn ; 
The Ocean burns, and rolls his waves of flame. 
See how the lightnings, barbed, red with wrath, 
Sent from the quiver of Omnipotence, 
Cross and recross the fiery gloom, and burn 
Into the centre ! — burn without, within, 
And help the native fires, which God awoke, 
And kindled with the fury of his wrath. 
As inly troubled, now she seems to shake ; 
The flames, dividing, now a moment, fall ; 
And now, in one conglomerated mass, 
Rising, they glow on high, prodigious blaze ! 
Then fall and sink again, as if, within. 
The fuel, burned to ashes, was consumed. 
So burned the Earth upon that dreadful day, 
Yet not to full annihilation burned. 
The essential particles of dust remained, 
Purged by the final, sanctifying fires. 
From all corruption ; from all stain of sin. 
Done there by man or devil, purified. 
The essential particles remained, of which 
God built the world again, renewed, improved. 
With fertile vale, and wood of fertile bough ; 
And streams of milk and honey, flowing song ; 
And mountains cinctured with perpetual green ; 
In clime and season fruitful, as at first, 
When Adam woke, unfallen, in Paradise. 
And God, from out the fount of native light, 
A handful took of beams, and clad the sun 
Again in glory; and sent forth the moon 
To borrow thence her wonted rays, and lead 
Her stars, the virgin daughters of the sky. 
And God revived the winds, revived the tides ; 



And touching her from his Almighty hand, 
With force centrifugal, she onward ran. 
Coursing her wonted path, to stop no more. 
Delightful scene of new inhabitants ! 
As thou, this morn, in passing hither, sawst. 

Thus done, the glorious Judge, turning to right, 
With countenance of love unspeakable. 
Beheld the righteous, and approved them thus: 
" Ye blessed of my Father, come, ye just, 
Enter the joy eternal of your Lord ; 
Receive your crowns, ascend, and sit with me, 
At God's right hand, in glory evermore!" 

Thus said the Omnipotent, Incarnate God 
And waited not the homage of the crowns, 
Already thrown before him ; nor the loud 
Amen of universal, holy praise ; 
But turned the living chariot of fire, 
And swifter now, — as joyful to declare 
This day's proceedings in his Father's court, 
And to present the number of his sons 
Before the Throne, — ascended up to heaven 
And all his saints, and all his angel bands, 
As, glorious, they on high ascended, sung 
Glory to God and to the Lamb ! — they sung 
Messiah, fairer than the sons of men. 
And altogether lovely. Grace is poured 
Into thy lips, above all measure poured ; 
And therefore God hath blessed thee evermore. 
Gird, gird thy sword upon thy thigh, O thou 
Most Mighty ! with thy glory ride ; with all 
Thy majesty, ride prosperously, because 
Of meekness, truth, and righteousness. Thy 

throne, 
O God, for ever and for ever stands ; 
The sceptre of thy kingdom still is right ; 
Therefore hath God, thy God, anointed thee. 
With oil of gladness and perfumes of myrrh, 
Out of the ivory palaces, above 
Thy fellows, crowned the Prince of endless peace ! 
Thus sung they God, their Saviour : and them- 
selves 
Prepared complete to enter now, with Christ, 
Their living Head, into the Holy Place. 
Behold ! the daughter of the King, the bride. 
All glorious within, the bride adorned, 
Comely in broidery of gold ! behold, 
She comes, appareled royally, in robes 
Of perfect righteousness, fair as the sun. 
With all her virgins, her companions fair, — 
Into the Palace of the King she comes. 
She comes to dwell for evermore ! Awake, 
Eternal harps ! awake, awake, and sing ! — 
The Lord, the Lord, our God Almighty, reigns ! 

Thus the Messiah, with the hosts of bliss. 
Entered the gates of heaven, unquestioned now. 
Which closed behind them, to go out no more ; 
And stood, accepted, in his Father's sight; 
Before the glorious, everlasting Throne, 
Presenting all his saints ; not one was lost, 



BOOK X. 



79 



Of all that he in Covenant received ; 
And, having given the kingdom up, he sat, 
Where now he sits and reigns, on the right hand 
Of glory ; and our God is all in all ! 
Thus have I sung beyond thy first request, 



Rolling my numbers o'er the track of man, 
The world at dawn, at mid-day, and dechne; 
Time gone, the righteous saved, the wicked damn- 
ed, 
And God's eternal government approved. 



THE END OF THE COURSE OF TEVffi. 



THE 



^®^s; 



^^^u 



MRS. FELICIA HEMANS. 



(tonttntu. 



Page. 

The Forest Sanctuary, 1 

LAYS OF MANY LANDS. 

Moorish Bridal Song, 24 

The Bird's Release, 'b- 

The Sword of the Tomb,— A Northern Legend, - 25 

Valkyriur Song, 26 

The Cavern of the Three Tells,— Swiss Tradition, 27 
Swiss Song,— on the Anniversary of an Ancient Battle, 28 

The Messenger-Bird, . ^ - - • ■ ib 

The Stranger in Louisiana, 29 

The Isle of Founts,— an Indian Tradition, • - ib. 

Tlie Bended Bow, 30 

He never smiled again, 31 

Coeur-del/ion at tne Bier of his Father, • - • ib. 

The Vassal's Lament for the Fallen Tree, - - 32 

The Wild Hunisman, 33 

Brandenburgh Harvest Song,— from the German of 

La Motle Fouque, ib. 

The Shade of Theseus,— Ancient Greek Tradition, 34 

Ancient Greek Song of Exile, - - - • ib. 

Greek Funeral Chant or Myriologue, ■ • - ib. 

The Parting Song, 3G 

The Suliote Mother, 37 

The Farewell to the Dead, 38 

The Siege of Valencia, 39 

The Vespers of Palermo, • - - . • • • 68 

The League of the Alps, 99 

The Restoration of the Works of Art to Italy, - • 103 



TALES AND HISTORIC SCENES. 
The Abencerrage, .... 
The Widow of Crescentius, 
The Last Banquet of Antony and Cleopatra, 

Alaric in Italy, 

The Wife of Asdrubal, .... 
Heliodortis in the Temple, .... 
Night Scene in Genoa, .... 
The Troubadour and Richard Cosur-de-Lion, 
The Death of Conradin, .... 



The Sceptic, 

Stanzas to the Memory of the late King, 

Modern Greece, 

Dartmoor, 



The Meeting of Wallace and Bruce on the Banks of the 
Carron, 



The Last Constantine, 



■ 109 
127 
135 
137 
139 
140 

• 141 
143 
145 

148 
154 
146 
172 

176 
179 



GREEK SONGS. 

I. The Storm of Delphi, 
n. The Bowl of Liberty, 
m. The Voice of Scio, 
IV. The Spartan's March, 
V. The Urn and Sword, 
VI. The Myrtle-Bough, 
10 



194 
195 

ib. 
196 

ib. 

ib. 



SONGS OF THE CID. 

The Cid's Departure into Exile, 
The Cid's Death-Bed, 
The Cid's Funeral Procession, 
The Cid's Rising, . 



RECORDS OF WOMAN. 

Arabella Stuart, - 

The Bride of the Greek Isle, - 

The Switzer's Wife, 

Properzia Rossi, 

Gertrude, or Fidelity till Death, 

Imelda, 

Edith, a Tale of the Woods, 
The Indian City, 
The Peasant Girl of the Rhone, 
Indian Woman's Death Song, - 
Joan of Arc, in Rheims, 

Pauline, 

Juana, 

The American Forest Girl, 
Coztanza, .... 
Madeline, a Domestic Tale, 
The Queen of Prussia's Tomb, 
The Memorial Pillar, 
The Grave of a Poetess, 

SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 

A Spirit's Return, • 



The Lady of Provence, .... 
The Coronation of Inez de Castro, • 
Italian Girl's Hynm to the Virgin, 

To a Departed Spirit, 

The Chamois Hunter's Love, ... 
The Indian with his Dead Child, 

Song of Emigration, 

The King of Arragon's Lament for his Brother, 

The Return, 

The Vaudois' Wife, 

The Gueiilla Leader's Vow, . . . • 
Thekia at her Lover's Grave, . - • . 
The Sisters of Scio, ..... 

Bernardo Del Carpio, 

The Tomb of Madame Langhans, 

The Exile's Dirge, 

The Dreaming Child, 

The Charmed Picture, 

Parting Words, . 

The Message to the Dead, 

The Two Homes, 

The Soldier's Deathbed, . 

The Image in the Heart, 

The Land of Dreams, 

Woman on the Field of Battle, 

The Deserted House, 

The Stranger's Heart, - 

Come Home, .... 

The Fountain of Oblivion, - 



HYMNS ON THE WORKS OF NATURE. 

Introductory Verses, .... 



243 



CONTENTS. 



The Rainbow, 

The Sun, 

The Rivers, 

The Stars, 

Tlie Ocean, 

The Tlumder Storm, 

The Birds, 

The Sky-Laric, 

The Nightingale, 

The Northern Spring, 

Paraphrase of Psahii cxlviii, 

To one of the Aiulior's Children on his Birth-day, 

To a Younger Child on a similar occasion, 



Page. 
248 
249 

- ib. 
ib. 

- 250 

ib. 

- 2.51 

Ib. 

- ib. 
252 

- ib. 
ib. 

253 



Camoens. 



TRANSLATIONS FROM CAMOENS AND OTHER 
POETS, 

High in the glowing heavens, . 
Wrapt in .<iad musings by Euphrates' 
If in thy glorious home above, 
This mountain-scene, with sylvan - 
Those eyes, whence love dilTused - 
Fair Tajo ! tlioii, whose calmly 
Thou, to whoso power my hopes, 
Spirit beloved ! whose wing so soon 
How strange a fate in love is mine ! 
Should Love, the tyrant of my 
Oft have I sung and mourned - 
Saved from the perils of the stormy 
Beside the streams of Babylon, 
There blooms a plant, whose gaze, - 
Amidst the bitter tears that fell 
He who proclaims that Love is light - 
Waves of Mondcgo ! briUiant and 
Where shall I find some desert 
Exempt from every grief, 't was 
No searching eye can pierce the veil 
In tears, the heart oppressed with - 
Italia! thou, by lavish Nature graced 
If thus thy fallen grandeur I behold 
Lei the vain courtier waste his days 
Pause not with lingering foot, 
These marble domes, by wealth 
The sainted spirit, vvhich from bliss 
He shall not dread Misfortune's 
The torrent wave, that breaks - 
Sweet rose ! whose tender foliage ■ 
Fortune ! why thus, whate'er my 
Wouldst thou to Love of danger • 
Unbending 'midst the wintry skies 
Oh ! those alone, whose severed ■ 
Ah ! ce;ise — those fruilless tears 
Amidst these scenes, O piluTim, • 
Juan de Tarsis. Thou, who ha.<t lied from life's - 
Torquato Tasso. Thou, in thy morn wert like 
Bernardo Tasso. Tliis green recess, where through 
Petrarch. Thou that woiddst mark, in form 
If to the sighing breeze of summer 
Bemho. Thou, the stern monarch of dismay 
Lorenzini. Sylph of ihe breeze! whose dewy • 
Gessner. Hail ! morning sun, thus early 
{German Song.) Listen, fair maid, my song shall lell 
Chaulieu. Thou grot, whence (lows this limpid 
Garcilaso de la Enjoy the sweets of life's luxuriant 
Vega. May 



Metastasio. 
Filicaja. 
Pastorini. 
Lope de Vega. 
Manuel. 
Delia Casa. 
Bentivoglio, 
Metastasio. 



Quevedo. 



^^SCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
The Treasures of the Deep, 
Bring Flowers, 
Tlie Crusader's Return, 



ib. 

ib. 

ib. 
254 

ib. 

ib. 

ib. 

ib. 
255 

ib. 

ib. 

ib. 

ib. 
250 

ib. 

ib. 

ib. 

ib. 
257 

ib. 

ib. 

ib. 

ib. 

ib. 
25S 

ib. 

ib. 

ib. 

ib. 

ib. 

259 

ib. 

ib. 

ib. 

ib. 

ib. 

280 

ib. 

ib. 

ib. 

ib. 

ib. 

261 
ib. 
ib. 
ib. 

ib. 



262 
ib. 
ib. 



Page. 
Thelvla's Song, or, The Voice of a Spirit, — from the 

Gorman of Schiller, 263 

The Revellers, 264 

The Conqueror's Sleep, - . . - . 

Our Lady's Well, 

Elysium, 

The Funeral Genius,— an Ancient Statue, - 

Dirge of a Cliikl, 

England's Dead, 

To the Memory of Bishop Heber, - 

The Hour of Prayer, 

The Voice of Spring, 

The Landing of the Pilgrim Fatlievs, 

The Hebrew Mother, 

The Child and Dove, 

The Child's Last Sleep, .... 

The Lady of the Castle, .... 

To the Ivy, 

On a Leaf from the Tomb of Virgil, - 

For a Design of a Butterfly resting on a Skull 

The Lost Pleiad, 

The Sleeper on Marathon, .... 

Troubadour Song, 

The Trumpet, 

The Dying Bard's Prophecy, 

TheVVreck, 

A Voyager's Dream of Land, ... 

The Grave of Korner, 

The Graves of a Household, ... 

The Last Wish, 

A Monarch's Death-Bed, .... 



The Hour of Deal h, 

The Release of Tasso, .... 
Tasso and his Sister, ..... 
To the Poet Wordsworth, - - - - 
The Song of the Curfew, .... 

Hymn for Christmas, 

Christ Stilling the Tempest, .... 
Christ's Agony in the Garden, . . - 

The Sunbeam, - 

The Traveller at the Source of the Nile, . 

The Vuudois Valleys, 

The Songs of our Fathers, .... 
The Burial of William the Conqueror, . 
TheSoundof the Sea, .... 

Casablanca, 

The Adopted Child, 

The Departed, 

The Breeze from Land, .... 
An Hour of Romance, ..... 
Evening Prayer at a Girls' School, 

The Invocation, 

Lines Written in a Hermitage on the Sea-shore, 
The Death-day of Korner, - 

Invocation, 

To the Memory of General Sir E— d P — k— m. 
To the Memory of Sir H — y E— 11— s, who fell in 

Battle of Waterloo, 

Guerilla Song, 

The Aged Indian, 

Evening amongst the Alps, .... 
Dirge of the Highland Chief in " Waverley," 
The Crusader's War Song, .... 
The Death of Clanronald, . . . . 

To the Eye, 

The Hero's Death, 

Stanzas on the Death of the Princess Charlotte, 

Belshazzar's Feast, 

The Chieftain's Son, 



- ib. 
265 

. ib. 

266 

• 267 

ib. 

- 263 
ib. 

- ib. 
259 

- 270 
271 

- ib. 
ib. 

- 272 
273 

- ib. 
ib. 

- 274 
ib. 

- ib. 
ib. 

- 275 
ib. 

- 276 
277 

- ib. 
278 

- ib. 
279 

- 280 
281 

. 282 
ib. 

- ib. 
233 

. ib. 

ib. 
. 234 

285 
. ib. 

286 
. ib. 

287 

- ib. 



the 



CONTENTS. 



The Tombs of Platsea, - 

The ^'icvv from Castri, 

The Festal Hoiir, - 

Song of the Hattle of Morgarien, 

Chorus, Translated from Manzoni 
magiiola," .... 

The Meeting of the Bards, - 

The Homes of England, 

The Sicilian Captive, - 

Ivan the Czar, 

Carolan's Prophecy, - 

The Mourner of the Barmecidea, 

The Spanish Chapel, - 

The Captive Knight, 

The Kaisers' Feast, - 

Ulia, or The Adjuration, 
The Effigies, 
The Spirits' Mysteries, • 
The Palm Tree, - 

Breathings of Spring, - 

The Illuminated City, 

The Spells of Home, 

Roman Girl's Song, - 

The Distant Ship, - 

The Birds of Passage, 

Mozart's Requiem, 

The Image in Lava, - 

Fairy Favotirs, 

A Parting Song, - 

The Bridal Day, - 

The .\ncestral Song, - 

The Magic Glass, - 

Corinne at tlie Capitol, 

The Ruin, 

The Minster, 

The Song of Xiglit, 

The Storm Painter in his Dungeon, 

Death and the Warrior, - 

The Two Voices, 

The Parting Ship, - 

The Last Tree of the Forest, 

The Streams, 



Conte 



Page. 
209 
ib. 
300 
301 

.103 



Pace. 

The Voice of the WincJ, 323 

The Vigil of Arms, ib. 

Tlielleaitof Bruce in Melrose Abbey, - • 329 

Niiiure's Farewell, ib. 

The Beings of the Mind, 330 

The Lyre's Lairient, 331 

'J'a-sso's Coronation, ib. 

The Better Land, 332 

Tlie Woimiled Eagle, ib. 

Sadness and Mirth, ib. 

The Niglitingale's Death Song, .... 333 

Tiio Diver, ib. 

'I'lie Roquiem of Genius, 334 

'I'riuMiphant Music, 335 

Second Sight, ib. 

The Sc;i-Bird Flying Inward, - . - - ib. 

The Sleeper, 336 

The Mirror in the Deserted Ilall, . . . . ib. 

Ilynin of the .Mountain Christian, . - • 337 

Church Music, ib. 

To a Picture of Madonna, ib. 

Wi; Return no More, 338 

Sui:a, . . . . ■ ib. 

The Parting of Summer, 339 

'J he World in the Open Air, .... ib. 

Kindred Hearts, 340 

'j'he Dial of Flowers, ib. 

Our Daily Paths, ib. 

The Cross in the Wilderness, .... 341 

Laat Riles, 342 

The CliHs of Dover, jb. 

The Voir* of Home to the Prodigal, - - . 343 

The Wakening, ib. 

The Dying Lnprovisatore, 344 

Music of Ve-stcrday, ib. 

The Forsaken Hearth, 315 

llie Dreamer, ib. 

The Wings of the Dove, 346 

Psyche borne by Zephyrs to the Island of Pleasure, ib. 

The Boon of Meinory, 317 

The Grave of .Martyrs, ib. 

Dreams of Heaven 348 



THE 

POETICAL WORKS 

op 



Ktxt :ffm*tut S^mxttimv^. 



Ihr Platze aller m«iner stillen Freuden, 
Euch lass ich hinter mir auf immerJar ! 

So ist des Geistes Ruf an mich er^angen, 
Mich treibt nicht eitles, irdisches Verlangen. 

Die Jungfrau von Orleans. 
Long time against oppression have I fought, 
And for the native liberty of faith 
Have bled and sulfer'd bonds. 

Remorse, a Tragedy. 



The following Poem is intended to describe the 
mental conflicts, as well as outward sufferings, of 
a Spaniard, who, flying from the religious perse- 
cutions of his own country in the 16th century, 
takes refuge with his child in a North American 
forest. The story is supposed to be related by 
himself amidst the wilderness wliich has aflforded 
him an asylum. 

I. 

The voices of my home ! — I hear them still ! 
They have been with me through the dreamy 

night — 
The blessed household voices, wont to fill 
My heart's clear depths with unalloy'd delight ! 
I hear them still, unchang'd : — though some from 

earth 
Are music parted, and the tones of mirth — 
Wild, silvery tones, that rang through days more 

bright! 
Have died in others, — yet to me they come, 
Singing of boyhood back — the voices of my home ! 

II. 

They call me through this hush of woods, repo- 
sing 
In the gray stillness of the summer morn. 
They wander by when heavy flowers are closing. 
And thoughts grow deep, and winds and stars 

are born ; 
E'en as a fount's remember'd gushings burst 
On the parch'd traveller in his hour of thirst. 
E'en thus they haunt me with sweet sounds, till 
worn 



By quenchless longings, to my soul I say — 
Oh ! for the dove's swift wings, that I might flee 
away, 

III. 

And find mine ark ! — yet whither 1 — I must bear 
A yearning heart within me to the grave. 
I am of those o'er whom a breath of air — 
Just darkening in its course the lake's bright 

wave. 
And sighing through the feathery canes(l) — 

hath power 
To call up shadows, in the silent hour. 
From the diin past, as from a wizard's cave ! 
So must it be ! — These skies above me spread, 
Are they my own soft skies 1 — Ye rest not here, 

my dead ! 

IV. 

Ye far amidst the southern flowers lie sleeping, 
Your graves all smiling in the sunshine clear, 
Save one ! — a blue, lone, distant main is sweeping 
High o'er one gentle head — ye rest not here ! — 
'Tis not the olive, with a whisper swaying. 
Not thy low ripplings, glassy water, playing 
Through my own chesnut groves, which fill 

mine ear; 
But the faint echoes in my breast that dwell, 
And for their birth-place moan, as moans the 

ocean-shell.(2) 



Peace ! — I will dash these fond regrets to earth, 
Ev'n as an eagle shakes the cumbering rain 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



From his strong pinion. Thou that gav'st me 

birth, 
And hneagp, and once home, — my native Spain ! 
My own bright kind — my father's laud — my 

child's ! 
What hath thy sou brought from thee to the 

wilds ? 
He hath brought marks of torture and the chain, 
Traces of things which pa.-5S not as a breeze, 
A bhglited name, dark thoughts, wrath, wo — thy 

gifts are these. 

VI. 

A blighted name ! — I hear the winds of morn — 
Their sounds arc not of this ! — I hear the shiver 
Of tlie green reeds, and all the rustlings, borne 
From the high forest, v\'hea the light leaves qui- 
ver: 
Their sounds are not of this I — the cedars, wa- 
ving. 
Lend it no tone: His wide savannahs laving, 
It is not murmur'd by the joyous river ! 
What part hath mortal name, where God alone 
Speaks to the mighty waste, and through its heart 
is known ? 

VII. 

Is it not much that I may worship Him, 
With nought my spirit's breathings to control, 
And feel His presence in the vast, and dim, 
And whispery woods, where dying thunders roll 
From the far cataracts 1 — Shall I not rejoice 
That I have learn'd at last to know His voice 
From man's 1 — I will rejoice! — my soaring soul 
Now hath redeem'd her birth-right of the day, 
And won, through clouds, to Him, herownunfet- 
ter'd way ! 

VIII. 

And thou, my boy! that silent at my knee 
Dost lift to mine thy soft, dark earnest eyes, 
Fill'd with the love of childhood, which I see 
Pure through its depths, a thing without dis- 
guise; 
Thou that hast brcath'd in slumber on my 

breast. 
When I have check'd its throbs to give thee rest, 
Mine own ! whose young thoughts fresh before 

me rise ! 
Is it not much that I may guide thy prayer, 
And circle thy glad soul with free and healthful 
air? 

IX. 

Why should 1 weep on thy bright head, my 

boyl 
Witliin thy fathers' halls thou wilt not dwell, 
Nor lift their banner, with a warrior's joy, 
Amidst the sons of mountain chiefs, who fell 



For Spain of old. — Yet what if roUing waves 
Have borne us far from our ancestral graves ! 
Thou shalt not feel tliy bursting heart rebel 
As mine hath done ; nor bear what I have borne, 
Casting in fiilsehood's mould th' indignant brow 
of scorn. 

X. 

This shall not be thy lot, my blessed child! 
I have not sorrow'd, struggled, lived in vain — 
Hear mel magnificent and ancient wild; 
And mighty rivers, ye that meet the main. 
As deep meets deep ; and forests, whose dim 

shade 
The flood's voice, and the wind's by swells per- 
vade; 
Hear me ! — 'tis well to die, and not complain, 
Yet there are hours when the charged heart must 
speak, 
Ev'n in the desert's ear to pour itself, or break ! 

XI. 

I see an oak before me, (3) it hath been 

The crown'd one of the woods ; and might have 

flung 
Its hundred arms to Heaven, still freshly green, 
But a v^'ild vine around the stem hath clung, 
From branch to branch close wreaths of bond- 
age throwing. 
Till the proud tree, before no tempest bowing, 
Hath shrunk and died, those serpent-folds ' 

among. 
Alas ! alas ! — what is it that I seel 
An image of man's mind, land of ray sires, with 
thee ! 

XII. 

Yet art thou lovely I Song is on thy hills — 
Oh sweet and mournful melodies of Spain, 
That luU'd my boyhood, how your memory 

thrills 
The exile's heart, with sudden-wakening pain ! — 
Your sounds are on the rocks — that I might hear 
Once more the musicof the mountaineer! — 
And from the sunny vales the shepherd's strain 
Floats out, and fills the solitary place 
With the old tuneful names of Spain's heroic race. 

XIII. 

But there was silence one bright, golden day, 
Through my own pine-hung mountains. Clear, 

yet lone, 
In the rich autumn light the vineyards lay, 
And from the fields the peasant's voice was gone ; 
And the red grapes untrodden strew'd the 

ground. 
And the free flocks untended roam'd around : 
Where was the pastor 7— where the pipe's wild 

tonel 



THE FOREST SANCTUARY. 



Music and mirth were hush'tl the hills among, 
While to the city's gates each hamlet pour'd its 
throng. 

XIV. 
Silence upon the mountains!— But within 
The city's gates a rush— a press— a swell 
Of multitudes their torrent way to win; 
And heavy booinings of a dull deep bell, 
A dead pause following each— like that which 

parts 
The dash of billows, holding breathless hearts 
Fast in the hush of fear— knell after knell; 
And sounds of thickening steps, lilce tliunder- 

rain, 
That plashes on the roof of some vast echoing 

fane! 

XV. 

What pageant's hour approach'd !— The sullen 

gate 
Of a strong ancient prison-house was thrown 
Back to the day. And who, in mournful state. 
Came forth, led slowly o'er its tlireshold-stone 1 
They that had Icarn'd, in cells of secret gloom, 
How sunshine is forgotten !— They, to whom 
The very features of mankind were grown 
Things that bewilder'd! — O'er their dazzled 

sight. 
They lifted their wan hands, and cowcr'd before 

the light ! 

XVI. 

To this man brings his brother!— Some were 

there, 
Who with their desolation had entwined 
Fierce strength, and girt the sternness of despair 
Fast round their bosoms, even as warriors bind 
The breast-plate on for fight : but brow and cheek 
Seemed theirs a torturing panoply to speak ! 
And there were some, from whom the very mind 
Had been wrung out : they smiled — oh ! start- 
ling smile 
Whence man's high soul is fled ! — where doth it 
sleep the while? 

XVII. 

But onward moved the melancholy train, 
For their false creeds in fiery pangs to die. 
This was the solemn sacrifice of Spain — 
Heaven's offering from the land of chivalry! 
Through thousands, thousands of their race they 

moved — 
Oh! how unlike all others! — the l)eloved. 
The free, the proud, the beautiful! whose eye 
Grew fixed before them, while a people's breath 
Was hushed, and its one soul hound in the thought 
of death! 



XVIII. 
It might be that amidst the countless throng. 
There swelled some heart with Pity's weight 

oppressed, 
For the wide stream of human love is strong 
And woman, on whose fond and faithful breast 
Childhood is reared, and at whose knee the sigh 
Of its first prayer is breathed, she, too, was nigh. 
But life is dear, and the free footstep blessed, 
And home a sunny place, where each may fill 
Some eye with glistening smiles, — and therefore 

all were still — 

XIX. 

All still — youth, courage, strength! — a winter 

laid, 
A chain of palsy, cast on might and mind ! 
Still, as at noon a soutiiern forest's shade. 
They stood, those breathless masses of mankind; 
Still, as a frozen torrent! — but the wave 
Soon leaps to foaming freedom — they, the brave, 
Endured — they saw the martyr's place assigned 
In the red flames — whence is the withering spell 
That numbs each human pulse 1 — they saw, and 
tliouglit it well. 

XX. 

And I, too, thought it well ! That very morn 
From a far land I came, yet round me clung 
The sijirit of my own. No hand had torn 
With a strong grasp away the veil vvhicli hung 
Between mine eyes and truth. I gazed, I saw, 
Diiuly, as throiigli a glass. In silent awe 
I watched the fearful rites; and if there sprung 
One rebel feeling from its deep fouKts up. 
Shuddering, I flung it back, as guilt's own poison- 
cup. 

XXI. 
But I was wakened as the dreamers waken 
Whom the shrill trumpet and the shriek of dread 
Rouse up at midnight, when their walls are 

taken, 
And they must battle till their blood is shed 
On their own threshold-floor. A path for light 
Through my torn breast was shattered by the 

might 
Of the swift tliunder-stroke — and Freedom's 

tread 
Came in through ruins, late, yet not in vain, 
Making the blighted place all green with life again. 

XXII. 

Still darkly, slowly, as a sullen mass 
Of cloud, o'ersweeping, without wind, the sky, 
Dream-like I saw the sad procession pass, 
And marked its victims with a tearles.<» eye. 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



They moved before me but as pictures, wrought 
Each to reveal some secret of man's thought, 
On the sharp edge of sad mortaUty, 
Till in his place came one — oh! could it be? 
— My friend, my heart's first friend! — and did I 
gaze on thee"? 

XXIII. 

On thee! with whom in boyhood I had played. 
At the grape-gatherings, by my native streams ; 
And to whose eye my youthful soul had laid 
Bare, as to Heaven's, its glowing world of dreams; 
And by whose side 'midst warriors I had stood. 
And in whose helm was brought — oh! earned 

^vith blood ! — 
Th( esh wave to my lips, when tropic beams 
Smote on my fevered brow! — Ay, years had 

passed. 
Severing our paths, brave friend ! — and thus we 

met at last ! 

XXIV. 

I see it still — the lofty mien thou borest — 
On thy pale forehead sat a sense of power! 
The very look that once thou brightly worest 
Cheering me onward through a fearful hour. 
When we were girt by Indian bow and spear, 
'Midst the white Andes — e'en as mountain deer, 
Hemmed in our camp — but through the javehn 

shower 
We rent our way, a tempest of despair ! 
— And thou — ^hadst thou but died with thy true 
brethren there ! 

XXV. 

I call the fond wish back — for thou hast perished 
More nobly far, my Alvar ! — r ^king known 
The might of truth ;(4) and be thy memory che- 
rished 
With theirs, the thousands, that around her 

throne 
Have poured their lives out smiling, in that doom 
Finding a triumph, if denied a tomb ! 
— Ay, with their ashes hath the wind been sown. 
And with the wind their spirit shall.be spread, 
Filling man's heart and home with records of the 
dead. 

XXVI. 
Thou Searcher of the Soul ! in whose dread sight 
Not the bold guilt alone, that mocks the skies. 
But the scarce-owned, unwhispered thought of 

night, . 
As a thing written with the sunbeam lies ; 
Thou know'st — whose eye through shade and 

depth can see, I 

That this man's crime was but to worship thee, j 



Like those that made their hearts thy sacrifice. 
The called of yore; wont by the Saviour's side, 
On the dim Olive-Mount to pray at eventide. 

XXVII. 
For the strong spirit vrill at times awake, 
Piercing the mists that wrap her clay-abode ; 
And, born of thee, she may not always take 
Earth's accents for the oracles of God ; 
And e'en for this — O dust, whose mask is power! 
Reed, that would be a scourge thy little hour ! 
Spark, whereon yet the mighty hath not trod. 
And therefore thou destroyest! — where were 
flown 
Our hope, if man were left to man's decree alone? 

XXVIII. 
But this I felt not yet. I could but gaze 
On him, my friend; while that swift moment 

threw 
A sudden freshness back on vanished days. 
Like water-drops on some dim picture's hue ; 
Calling the proud time up, when first I stood 
Where banners floated, and my heart's quick 

blood 
Sprang to a torrent as the clarion blew. 
And he — his sword was like a brother's worn. 
That watches through the field his mother's young- 
est born. 

XXIX. 

But a lance met me in that day's career. 
Senseless I lay amidst th' o'ersweeping fight. 
Wakening at last — how full, how strangely clear, 
That scene on memory flashed ! — the shivery 

light. 
Moonlight, on broken shields — the plain of 

slaughter. 
The fountain-side — the low sweet sound of wa- 
ter — 
And Alvar bending o'er me — from the night 
Covering me with his mantle ! — all the past 
Flowed back — my soul's far chords all answered 
to the blast. 

XXX. 

Till, in that rush of visions, I became 
As one that by the bands of slumber wound, 
Lies with a powerless, but all-thrilling frame, 
Intense in consciousness of sight and sound. 
Yet buried in a wildering dream which brings 
Loved faces round him, girt with fearful things ! 
Troubled e'en thus I stood, but chained and 

bound 
On that familiar form mine eye to keep — 
—Alas ! I might not fall upon his neck and 
weep! 



THE FOREST SANCTUARY. 



XXXI. 

He passed me — and what nextl — I looked on 

two, 
Following his footsteps to the same dread place, 
For the same guilt— his sisters !(5) — Well I knew 
The beauty on those brows, though each young 

face 
Was changed — so deeply changed ! — a dun- 
geon's air 
Is hard for loved and lovely things to bear, 
And ye, O daughters of a lofty race, 
Clueen-like Theresa ! radiant Inez ! — flowers 
So cherished ! were ye then but reared for those 
dark hours 1 

XXXII. 

A mournful home, young sisters ! had ye left, 
With your lutes hanging hushed upon the wall, 
And silence round the aged man, bereft 
Of each glad voice, once answering to his call. 
Alas, that lonely f;\ther! doom'd to pine 
For sounds departed in his life's decline. 
And, 'midst the shadowing banners of his hall. 
With his white hair to sit, and deem the name 
A hundred chiefs had borne, cast down by you to 
shame !(6) 

XXXIII. 

And wo for you, 'midst looks and words of love. 
And gentle hearts and faces, nursed so long ! 
How had I seen you in your beauty move. 
Wearing the wreath, and listening to the song ! 
— Yet sat, e'en then, what seemed the crowd to 

shun. 
Half veiled upon the clear pale brow of one. 
And deeper thouglits than oft to youth belong, 
Thoughts, such as wake to evening's whispery 

sway, 
Within the drooping shade of her sweet eyelids 

lay. 

XXXIV. 

And if she mingled with the festive trahi, 
It was but as some melancholy star 
Beholds the dance of shepherds on the plain, 
In its bright stillness present, though afar. 
Yet would she smile — and that, too, hath its 

smile — 
Circled with joy which reached her not the while, 
And bearing a lone spirit, not at war 
With earthly things, hut o'er their form and hue 
Shedding too clear a hght, too sorrowfully true. 

XXXV. 

But the dark hours wring forth the hidden might 
Which had lain bedded in the silent soul, 
A treasure all undreamt of; — as the night 
Calls out the harmonies of streams that roll 



Unheard by day. It seemed as if her breast 
Had hoarded energies, till tlien suppressed 
Almost with pain, and bursting from control. 
And finding first tliat hour their pathway free : 
— Could a rose brave the storm, such might her 
emblem be ! 

XXXVI. 

For the soft gloom whose shadow still had hung 
On her fair brow, beneath its garlands worn, 
AVas fled; and fire, like prophecy's had spruncr 
Clear to her kindled ej'e. It might be scorn — 
Pride — sense of wrong — ay, the frail heart is 

bound 
By these at times, even as with adamant wund, 
Kept so from breaking ! — yet not thus uf tne 
She moved, though some sustaining passion's 

wave 
Lifted her fervent soul — a sister for the brave' 

XXXVII. 

And yet, alas ! to see the strength which chnorg 
Round woman in such hours 1 — a mournful sight, 
Though lovely ! — an overflowing of the springs. 
The full springs of aftl'Ction, deep as bright! 
And she, because her life is ever twined 
With other lives, and by no stormy wind 
May thence be shaken, and because the light 
Of tenderness is round her, and her eye 
Doth weep such passionate tears-— therefore she 
thus can die. 

XXXVIII. 

Therefore didst thou, through that heart-shaking 

scene. 
As through a triumph move ; and cast aside 
Thine own swc thoughtfulness for victory's 

mien, 
O faithful sister! cheering thus the guide. 
And friend, and brother of thy sainted youth. 
Whose hand had led thee to the source of truth, 
Where thy glad soul from earth was purified; 
Nor wouldst thou, following him through all the 

past. 
That he should see thy step grow tremulous at last. 

XXXIX. 

For thou hadst made no deeper love a guest 
'Midst thy young spirit's dreams, than that which 
grows 
Between the nurtured of the same fond breast. 
The sheltered of one roof; and thus it rose 
Twined in with Ufe. — How is it, that the hours 
Of the same sport, the gathering early flowers 
Round the same tree, the sharing one repose. 
And mingling one first prayer in murmurs soft, 
From the heart's memory fade, in this world's 
breath, so oft"? 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



XL. 

But thee that breath had touched not ; thee, nor 

him, 
The true in all things found ! — and thou wert 

blest 
Even then, that no remembered change could 

dim 
The perfect image of affection, pressed 
Like armour to thy bosom ! — thou hadst kept 
Watch by tliat brother's couch of pain, and wept, 
Thy sweet face covering with thy robe, when 

rest 
Fled from the sufferer; thou hadst bound his fliith 
Unto thy soul — one light, one hope ye chose — one 

death. « 

XLI. 

So didst thou pass on brightly ! — but for her. 
Next in that path, how may her doom be spo- 
ken! 
— All merciful ! to tliink that such things were, 
And arc, and seen by men with hearts un- 
broken ! 
To think of that fair girl, whose patli had been 
So strewed with rose-leaves, all one fairy scene ! 
And whose quick glance came ever as a token 
Of hope to drooping thoug'.it, aud her glad voice 
As a free bird's in spring, that nialics the woods 
rejoice 1 

XLII. 

And she to die ! — she loved the laughing earth 
With such deep joy in its fresh leaves and flow- 
ers! 
— Was not her smile even as the sudden birth 
Of a young rainbow, colouring vernal showers'! 
Yes! but to meet her fawn-like step, to hear 
The gushes of wild song, so silvery clear. 
Which, oft unconsciously, in happier hours 
Flowed from her lips, was to forget the sway 
Of Time and Death below, — blight, shadow, dull 
decay ! 

XLin. 

Could this change be? — the hour, the scene, 

where last 
I saw tliat form, came floating o'er my mind : 
— A golden vintage-eve ; — the heats were pass- 
ed, 
And, in the freshness of the fanning wind, 
Her fatlier sat, where gleamed tlie first faint star 
Through the lime-boughs ; and with her light 

guitar. 
She, on the greensward at his feet reclined. 
In his calm face laughed up ; some shepherd-lay 
Singing, as childliood sings on the lone hills at 
play. ' I 



XLIV. 

And now — oh God! the bitter fear of death, 
And sore amaze, the faint o'crshadowing dread, 
Had grasped her ! — panting in her quick-drawn 

breath. 
And in her white lips quivering ; — onward led. 
She looked up with her dim bewildered eyes, 
And there smiled out her own soft brilliantskies, 
Far iu their sultry southern azure spread. 
Glowing witlijoy, but silent!— still they smiled, 
Yet sent down no reprieve for earth's poor trem- 

bUng child. 

XLV. 

Alas ! that earth had all too strong a hold, 
Too fast, sweet Inez ! on thy heart, whose bloom 
Was given to early love, nor knew how cold 
The hours which follow. There was one, with 

whom, 
Young as thou wert, and gentle, and untried, 
Thou mightest, perchance, unshrinkingly have 

died; 
But he was far away ; — and with thy doom 
Thusgatliering, life grew so intensely dear, 
That all thy slight frame shook with its cold mor- 
tal fear! 

XLVL 

No aid! — thou too didst pass! — and all had 

passed, 
The fearful — and the desperate — and the 

strong ! 
Some like the bark that rushes with the blast, 
Some like the leaf swept shiveringly along. 
And some as men, that have but one more field 
To fight, and tlien may slumber on their shield. 
Therefore they arm in hope. But now the 

throng 
Rolled on, and bore me with their living tide, 
Even as a bark wherein is left no power to guide. 

XLVII. 
Wave swept on wave. We reached a stately 

square, 
Decked for the rites. An altar stood on high. 
And gorgeous, in the midst. A place for prayer. 
And praise, and offeruig. Could the earth sup- 
ply 
No fruits, no flowers for sacrifice, of all 
Which on her sunny lap unheeded falH 
No fair young firstling of the flock to die. 
As when before their God the Patriarciis stood? 
— Look down! man brings thee, Heaven! his 
brother's guiltless blood ! 

XLVIII. 
Hear its voice, hear !— a cry goes up to thee. 
From the stained sod;— make thou thy judg- 
ment known 



THE FOREST SANCTUARY. 



On him, the shedder!— let his portion be 
The fear tliat walks at midnight— give the moan 
In the wind haunting him a j)Owcr to say 
" Where is tliy brotlicr?" — and the stars a ray 
To search and shake liis sjiirit, when alone 
With the dread splendour of their burning eyes! 
— So shall earth own thy will— mercy, not sacri- 
fice! 

XLIX. 

Sounds of triumphant praise ! — the mass was 

sung — 
— Voices that die not miglit have poured such 

strains ! 
Through Salem's towers might that proud chant 

have rung, 
When the Most High, on Syria's palmy plains, 
Had quelled her foes I — so full it swe(it, a sea 
Of loud waves jubilant, and rolling free! 
Oft when the winds, as through resounding 

fanes, 
Hath filled the choral forests with its power, 
Some deep tone brings mc back the music of that 

hour. 



It died away ; — the incense-cloud was driven 
Before the breeze — the words of doom were 

said ; 
And the sun faded mournfully from heaven, 
— He faded mournfully! and dimly red, 
Parting in clouds from those that looked their 

last. 
And sighed — " Farewell, thou sun !" — Eve 

glowed and passed — 
Night — midnight and the moon — came forth 

and shed 
Sleep, even as dew, on glen, wood, peopled 
spot — 
Save one — a place of death — and there men slum- 
bered not. 

LI. 

' Twas not within tlie city(7) — but in sight 
Of the snow-crowned sierras, freely sweeping, 
Witii many an eagle's eyrie on the height. 
And hunter's cabin, by the torrent peejiing 
Far olT: and vales between, and vim-yards lay. 
With sound and gleam of waters on their way. 
And chcsnut-woods, that girt the happy sleep- 
ing, 
In many a peasant-home! — the midniglit sky 

Brought softly that rich world round those who 
came to die. 

LIT. 

The darkly-glorious midnight sky of Spain, 
Burning with stars! — What had the torches' 
glare 



To do beneath that Temple, and profane 
Its holy radiance 1 — By their wavering flare, 
I saw beside the pyres — I see thee now, 

brigiit 'I'heresa! with thy lifted brow. 

And tiiy clasi)ed hands, and dark eyes fdlcd with 

prayer ! 
And thee, and Inez! bowing thy fair head, 
And mantling up thy face, all colourless with 
dread! 

LIII. 

And Alvar, Alvar! — I beheld thee too. 
Pale, steadfast, kingly; till thy clear glance fell 
On that young sister; then perturbed it grew, 
And all tliy luiwuring bosom seemed to swell 
With i)aiiiful tenderness. Why came I there, 
That troubled image of my friend to bear 
Thence, for my after- years'! — a thing to dwell 
In my heart's core, and on the darkness rise, 
Disquic'ting my dreams with its briglit mournful 
eyes'? 

LIV. 

Why name 11 oh ! the heart's deep mystery ! — 

Why 
In man's last hour doth vain affection's gaze 
Fix itself down on struggling agony. 
To the dinnn'd eye-balls freezing, as theyglazel 
It might be — yet the power to will seemed o'er — 
1'hat my soul yearn'd to hear his voice ouce 

more ! 
Eut mine was fettered ! mute in strong amaze, 

1 watched his features as the night-wind blew, 
And torch-light or the moon's passed o'er their 

marble hue. 

LV. 

The trampling of a steed ! — a tall white steed, 
Rending his fiery way the crowds among — 
A storm's way through a forest — came at speed, 
And a wild voice cried " Inez!" Swift she flung 
The mantle from her face, and gazed around, 
With a faint shriek at that familiar sound. 
And from his seat a breathless rider sprung, 
And dashed off fiercely those who came to part, 
And rushed to that pale girl, and clasped her to his 
heart. 

LVI. 
And for a moment all around gave way 
To that full burst of passion! — on his breast, 
Like a bird panting yet from fear she lay. 
But blessed — in misery's very lap — yet blest! — 
Oh love, love, strong as death ! — from such an 

hour 
Pressing out joy hy thine immortal power. 
Holy and fervent love! had earth but rest 
For thee and tliinc, this world were all to fair! 
How could we thence be weaned to die without 

despair ? 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



LVII. 

But she — as falls a willow from the storm, 
O'er its own river streaming — thus reclin'd 
On the youth's hosom hung her fragile form, 
And clasping arms, so passionately twined 
Around his neck — with such a trusting fold, 
A full deep sense of safety in their hold. 
As if nought earthly might th' embrace unbind 
Alas ! a child's fond faith, believing still 
Its mother's breast beyond the lightning's reach to 
kiU! 

LVIII. 
Brief rest ! upon the turning billow's height, 
A strange sweet moment of some heavenly 

strain, 
Floating between the savage gusts of night. 
That sweep the seas to foam ! Soon dark again 
The hour — the scene — th' intensely present, 

rush'd 
Back on her spirit, and her large tears gushed 
Like blood-drops from a victim; with swift rain 
Bathing the bosom where she lean'd that hour. 
As if her life would melt into th' o'erswelling 

shower. 

LIX. 

But he, whose arm sustained her ! — oh ! I knew 
'Twas vain, and yet he hoped ! — he fondly 

strove 
Back from her faith her sinking soul to woo, 
As life might yet be hers ! — A dream of love 
Which could not look upon so fair a thing. 
Remembering how like hope, like joy, like 

spring, 
Her smile was wont to glance, her step to move, 
And deem that men indeed, in very truth, 
Could mean the sting of death for her soft flower- 
ing youth ! 

LX. 

He wooed her back to life. — " Sweet Inez, live! 

My blessed Inez ! — visions have beguil'd 

Thy heart — abjure them ! — thou wert formed to 

give. 
And to find joy ; and hath not sunshine smiled 
Around thee ever 1 Leave me not, mine ovpn ! 
Or earth will grow too dark ! — for thee alone. 
Thee have I loved, thou gentlest ! from a child. 
And borne thine image with me o'er the sea. 
Thy soft voice in my soul ! — Speak — Oh ! yet live 
for me 1" 

LXI. 

She look'd up wdldly ; there were anxious eyes 
Waiting that look — sad eyes of troubled thought, 
Alvar's — Theresa's ! — Did her childhood rise, 
With all its pure and home-affections fraught, 



In the brief glance 1 — She clasped her hands — 

the strife 
Of love, faith, fear, and that vain dream of life, 
Within her woman's breast so deeply wrought, 
It seemed as if a reed so slight and weak 
Must, in the rending storm not quiver only — 
break! 

LXII. 

And thus it was — the young cheek flushed and 

faded, 
As the swift blood in currents came and went. 
And hues of death the marble brow o'ershaded, 
And the sunk eye a watery lustre sent 
Through its white fluttering lids. Then trem- 
blings passed 
O'er the frail form, that shook it, as the blast 
Shakes the sere leaf, until the spirit rent 
Its way to peace — the fearful way unknown — 
Pale in love's arms she lay — she — what had loved 
was gone ! 

LXIII. 

Joy for thee, trembler ! — thou redeemed one, joy ! 
Young dove set free ! earth, ashes, soulless clay, 
Remained for bafiled vengeance to destroy ; 
— Thy chain was riven ! — nor hadst thou cast 

away 
Thy hope in thy last hour ! — though love was 

there 
Striving to wring thy troubled soul from prayer, 
And life seemed robed in beautiful array, 
Too fair to leave ! — but this might be forgiven, 
Thou wert so richly crowned with precious gifts 

of Heaven ! 

LXIV. 
But wo for liim who felt the heart grow still, 
Which, with its weight of agony, had lain 
Breaking on his ! — Scarce could the mortal chill 
Of the hushed bosom, ne'er to heave again, 
And all the silence curdling round the eye, 
Bring home the stern belief that she could die, 
That she indeed could die ! — for wild and vain 
As hope might be — his soul had hoped — 'twas 

o'er — 
Slowly his failing arms dropped from the form they 

bore, 

LXV. 

They forced him from that spot. — It might be 

well, 
That the fierce, reckless words by anguish wrung 
From his torn breast, all aimless as they fell. 
Like spray-drops from the strife of torrents flung, 
Were marked as guilt. — There are, who note 

these things 
Against the smitten heart ; its breaking stringa 



THE FOREST SANCTUARY. 



— On whose low thrillsonce gentle music hung — 
With a rude hand of touch unholy trying, 
And numbering then as crimes, the deep, strange 
tones replying. 

LXVI. 

But ye in solemn joy, O faithful pair ! 
Stood gazing on your parted sister's dust; 
I saw your features by the torch's glare. 
And they were brightening with a heavenward 

trust ! 
I saw the doubt, the anguish, the dismay. 
Melt from my Alvar's glorious mien away, 
And peace was there — the calmness of the just ! 
And, bending down the slumberer's brow to kiss, 
"Thy rest is won," he said; — "sweet sister! 

praise for this !" 

LXVII. 

I started as from sleep ; — yes ! he had spoken — 
A breeze had troubled memory's hidden source ! 
At once the torpor of my soul was broken — 
Thought, feeling, passion, woke in tenfold force. 
—There are soft breathings in the southern wind, 
That so your ice-chains, O ye streams ! unbind, 
And free the foaming swiftness of your course ! 
— I burst from those that held me back, and fell 
Ev'n on his neck, and cried — " Friend, brother ! 
fare thee well !" 

LXVIII. 

Did he not say " Farewell 1" — Alas ! no breath 
Came to mine ear. Hoarse murmurs from the 

throng 
Told that the mysteries in the face of death 
Had from their eager sight been veiled too long. 
And we were parted as the surge might part 
Those that would die together, true of heart. 
— His hour was come — but in mine anguish 

strong. 
Like a fierce swimmer through the midnight sea, 
Blindly I rushed away from that which was to be. 

LXIX. 

Away — away I rushed ; — but swift and high 
The arrowy pillars of the firelight grew, 
Till the transparent darkness of the sky 
Flushed to a blood-red mantle in tlieir hue ; 
And, phantom-like, the kindling city seemed 
To spread, float, wave, as on the wind they 

streamed. 
With their wild splendour chasing me ! — I knew 
The death-work was begun — I veiled mine eyes, 
Yet stopped in spell-bound fear to catch the victims' 

cries. 

LXX. 

What heard I then 7— a ringing shriek of pain, 
Such as for ever haunts the tortur'd ear 1 



I heard a sweet and solemn-breathing strain 
Piercing the flames, untremulous and clear ! 
— The rich, triumphal tones! — I know them well, 
As they came floating with a breezy swell ! 
Man's voice was there — a clarion voice to cheer 
In the mid -battle — ay, to turn the flying — 
Woman's — that might have sung of Heaven be- 
side the dying ! 

LXXI. 

It was a fearful, yet a glorious thing, 
To hear that hymn of martyrdom, and know 
That its glad stream of melody could spring 
Up from th' unsounded gulfs of human wo ! 
Alvar ! Theresa ! — what is deep? what strong? 
God's breath within the soul ! — It filled that song 
From your victorious voices ! — but the glow 
On the hot air and lurid skies increased — 
— Faint grew the sounds — more faint — I listened — 
they had ceased ! 

LXXII. 

And thou uideed hadst perished, my soul's friend! 
I might form other ties — but thou alone 
Couldst with a glance the veil of dimness rend, 
By other years o'er boyhood's memory thrown! 
Others might aid me onward: — Thou and I 
Had mingled the fresh thoughts that early die, 
Once flowering — never more ! — And thou wert 

gone! 
Who could give back my youth, my spirit free, 
Or be in aught again what thou hadst been to me ? 

LXXIII. 

And yet I wept thee not, thou true and brave! 
I could not weep: — there gathered round thy 

name 
Too deep a passion! — thou denied a grave! 
Thou, with the blight flung on thy soldier's fame ! 
Had I not known thy heart from childhood's 

time 1 
Thy heart of hearts 1 — and couldst thou die for 

crime? 
— No I had all earth decreed that death of shame, 
I would have set, against all earth's decree, 
Th' unalieaable trust of my firm soul in thee ! 

LXXIV. 

There are swift hours in life — strong, rushing 

hours. 
That do the work of tempests in their might ! 
They shake down things that stood as rocks and 

towers 
Unto th' undoubting mind; — they pour in light 
Where it but startles — like a burst of day 
For which th' uprooting of an oak makes way; — 
They sweep the colouring mists from off our 

sight. 



10 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



They touch with fire, thought's graven page, the 
roll 
Stamped with past years — and lo ! it shrivels as a 
scroll ! 

LXXV. 

And this was of such hours ! — the sudden flow 
Of my soul's tide seemed whelming me; the 

glare 
Of the red flames, yet rocking to and fro, 
Scorched up my heart with breathless thirst for 

air, 
And solitude and freedom. It had been 
Well with me then, in some vast desert scene. 
To pour my voice out, for the winds to bear 
On with them, wildly questioning the sky. 
Fiercely th' untroubled stars, of man's dim destiny. 

LXXVI. 

I would have called, adjuring the dark cloud; 
To the most ancient Heavens I would have said 
— "Speak to me! show me truth !"(8) — through 

night aloud 
I would have cried to him, the newly dead, 
" Come back! and show me truth!" — My spirit 

seemed 
Gasping for some free burst, its darkness teemed 
With such pent storms of thought! — again I 

fled— 
I fled, a refuge from man's face to gain, 
Scarce conscious when I paused, entering a lonely 

fane. 

LXXVII. 

A mighty minster, dim, and proud, and vast! 
Silence was round the sleepers, whom its floor 
Shut in the grave ; a shadow of the past, 
A memory of the sainted steps that wore 
Erewhile its gorgeous pavement, seemed to brood 
Like mist upon the stately solitude, 
A halo of sad fame to mantle o'er 
Its white sepulchral forms of mail-clad men. 
And all was hushed as night in some deep Alpine 
glen. 

LXXVIII. 

More hushed, far more! — for there the wind 
sweeps by, 

Or the woods tremble to the streams' loud play ! 

Here a strange echo made my very sigh 

Seem for the place too much a sound of day ! 

Too much my footstep broke the moonlight, 
fading. 

Yet arch through arch in one soft flow pervad- 
ing; 

And 1 stood still : — prayer, chant, had died away. 

Yet past me floated a funereal breath 
Of incense. — I stood still — as before God and death ! 



LXXIX. 

For thick ye girt me round, ye long-departed 1(9) 
Dust — imaged form — with cross, and shield, and 

crest ; 
It seems as if your ashes would have started, 
Had a wild voice burst forth above your rest ! 
Yet ne'er, perchance, did worshipper of yore 
Bear to your thrilling presence what / bore 
Of wrath — doubt — anguish — battling in the 

breast ! 
I could have poured out words, on that pale air, 
To make your proud tombs ring: — no, no! I could 

not there! 

LXXX. 

Not 'midst those aisles, through which a thou- 
sand years 
Mutely as clouds and reverently had swept ; 
Not by those shrines, which yet the trace of tears 
And kneeling votaries on their marble kept ! 
Ye were too mighty in your pomp of gloom 
And trophied age, O temple, altar, tomb ! 
And you, ye dead ! — for in that faith ye slept, 
Whose weight had grown a mountain's on my 
heart. 
Which could not there be loosed. — I turned me to 
depart. 

LXXXI. 

I turned — what glimmered faintly on my sight, 
Faintly, yet brightening, as a wreath of snow 
Seen through dissolving haze ! — The moon, the 

night. 
Had waned, and dawn poured in; — gray, sha- 
dowy, slow. 
Yet day-spring still ! — a solemn hue it caught, 
Piercing the storied windows, darkly fraught 
With stoles and draperies of imperial glow , 
And soft, and sad, that colouring gleam was 
thrown. 
Where, pale, a pictured form above the altar shone. 

LXXXII. 
Thy form, thou Son of God! — a wrathful deep, 
With foam, and cloud, and tempest, round thee 



And such a weight of night! — a night, when 

sleep 
From the fierce rocking of the billows fled. 
A bark showed dim beyond thee, with its mast 
Bowed, and its rent sail shivering to the blast ; 
But, like a spirit in thy gliding tread, 
Thou, as o'er glass, didst walk that stormy sea 
Through rushing winds which left a silent path 

for thee ! 

LXXXIII. 
So still thy white robes fell I no breath of air 
Within their long andslumberous folds had sway! 



THE FOREST SANCTUARY. 



II 



So still the waves of parted, shadowy hair 
From thy clear brow flowed droopingly away ! 
Dark were the heavens above thee, Saviour ! — 

dark 
The gulfs, Deliverer! round the straining bark! 
But thou ! — o'er all thine aspect and array 
Was poured one stream of pale, broad, silvery 

llght- 
— Thou wert the single star of that all-shrouding 

night! 

LXXXIV. 
Aid for one sinking !— Thy lone brightness 

gleamed 
On his wild face, just lifted o'er the wave, 
With its worn, fearful, human look that seemed 
To cry through surge and blast — '■' I perish — 

save !" 
Not to the winds — not vainly! — thou wert nigh, 
Thy hand was stretched to Minting agony, 
Even in the portals of th' unquiet grave ! 
O thou that art the life I and yet didst bear 
Too much of mortal wo to turn from mortal prayer ! 

LXXXV. 

But it was not a thing to rise on death, 
With its remembered Hght, that face of thine, 
Redeemer! dimmed by this world's misty breath. 
Yet mournfully, mysteriously divine 1 
— Oh ! that calm, sorrowful, prophetic eye. 
With its dark depths of grief, love, majesty! 
And the pale glory of the brow ! — a shrine 
Where power sat veiled yet shedding softly 
round 
What told that thou couldst be but for a time un- 
crowned ! 

LXXXVI. 
And more than all, the Heaven of that sad smile ! 
The lip of mercy, our immortal trust ! 
Did not that look, that very look, erewhile, 
Pour its o'ershadowed beauty on the dust 7 
Wert thou not such when earth's dark cloud 

hung o'er theel 
Surely thou wert! — my heart grew hushed be- 
fore thee, 
Sinking with all its passions, as the gust 
Sank at thy voice, along its billowy way: — 
—What had I there to do, but kneel, and weep, 
and pray "? 

LXXXVIL, 

Amidst the stillness rose my spirit's cry, 
Amidst the dead — " By that full cup of wo, 
Pressed from the fruitage of mortality, 
Saviour ! for thee — give light ! that I may know 
If by thy will, in thine all-healing name. 
Men cast down human hearts to blighting shame, 
And early death — and say, if this be so, 



Where then is mercy 1 — whither shall we flee, 
So unallied to hope, save by our hold on thee"? 

LXXXVIII. 

" But didst thou not, the deep sea brightly 

trcciding, 
Lift from despair that struggler with the wave? 
And wert thou not, sad tears, yet awful, shed- 
ding. 
Beheld, a weeper at a mortal's grave 1 
And is this weiglit of anguish, which they bind 
On life, this searing to the quick of mind. 
That but to God its own free path would crave, 
This crushing out of hope, and love, and youth, 
Thy will indeed 1 — Give light! that I may know 
the truth ! 

LXXXIX. 

" For my sick soul is darkened unto death. 
With shadows from tiie suflering it hath seen; 
The strong foundations of mine ancient faith 
Sink from bcneatii me — whereon shall 1 lean 1 
— Oh! if from thy [uire lij)s was wrung the sigh 
Of the dust's anguish! if like man to die, 
— And earth round him shuts heavily — hath 

been 
Even to thee bitter, aid me ! — guide me ! — turn 
My wild and wandering thoughts back from their 

starless bourne !" 

XC. 

And calm'd I rose: — but how the while had 
risen 

Morn's orient sun, dissolving mist and shade! 

— Could there indeed be wrong, or chain, or 
prison. 

In the bright world such radiance might per- 
vade? 

It fiU'd the fane, it mantled the pale form 

Which rose before me through the pictured 
storm. 

Even the gray tombs it kindled, and array 'd 

With life! — how hard to see thy race begun. 
And think man wakes to grief, wakening to thee, 
O sun ! 

XCI. 

I sought my home again : — and thou, my child, 
There at my play beneath yon ancient pine. 
With eyes, whose lightning laughter(IO) hath 

beguil'd 
A thousand pangs, thence flashing joy to mine ; 
Thou in thy mother's arms, a babe, did meet 
My coming with young smiles, which yet, 

though sweet. 
Seem'd on my soul all mournfully to shine, 
And ask a happier heritage for thee, 
Than but in turn the blight of human hope to see. 



12 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



XCII. 

Now sport, for thou art free — the bright birds 

chasing, 
Whose wings waft star-Uke gleams from tree 

to tree ; 
Or with the fawn, thy swift wood-playmate 

racing, 
Sport on, my joyous child ! for thou art free ! 
Yes, on that day I took thee to my heart. 
And inly vow'd, for thee a better part 
To choose ; that so thy sunny bursts of glee 
Should wake no more dim thoughts of far-seen 

wo, 
But, gladdening fearless eyes, flow on — as now 

they flow. 

XCIII. 
Thou hast a rich world round thee : — Mighty 

shades 
Weaving their gorgeous tracery o'er thy head, 
With the light melting through their high ar- 
cades 
As through a pillared cloister's :(11) but the 

dead 
Sleep not beneath ; nor doth the sunbeam pass 
To marble shrines through rainbow-tinted glass ; 
Yet thou, by fount and forest-murmur led 
To worship, thou art blest ! — to thee is shown 
Earth in her holy pomp, decked for her God alone. 



PART SECOND. 



Wie diese treue liebe Seele 

Von ihrem Glauben voll, 

Per ganz allein 
Ihr selig machend ist, sich heilig quale, 
Dass sie den liebsten Mann verloren halten soil ! 

Faust. 
I never shall smile more, but all my days 
Walk with still footsteps and with humble eyes, 
An everlasting hymn within my soul. 

Wilson. 



Bring me the sounding of the torrent-water, 
With yet a nearer swell — fresh breeze, 

awake !(12) 
And river, darkening ne'er with hues of slaughter 
Thy wave's pure silvery green, — and shining 

lake. 
Spread far before my cabin, with thy zone 
Of ancient woods, ye chainless things and lone! 
Send voices through the forest aisles, and make 
Glad music round me, that my soul may dare. 
Cheered by such tones, to look back on a dun- 
geon's air ! 



II. 

Oh, Indian hunter of the desert's race ! 
That with the spear at times, or bended bow, 
Dost cross my footsteps in the fiery chase 
Of the swift elk or blue hill's flying roe; 
Thou that beside the red night-fire thou heapest, 
Beneath the cedars and the star-light sleepest, 
Thou knowest not, wanderer — never mayest 

thou know ! — 
Of the dark holds wherewith man cumbers 

earth. 
To shut from human eyes the dancing seasons' 

mirth. 

III. 

There, fettered down from day, to think the 

while 
How bright in Heaven the festal sun is glowing, 
Making earth's loneliest places, with his smile, 
Flush like the rose ; and how the streams are 

flowing 
With sudden sparkles through the shadowy 

grass. 
And water- flowers, all trembling as they pass ; 
And how the rich dark summer-trees are bowing 
With their full foliage ; — this to know, and pine 
Bound unto midnight's heart, seems a stern lot — 

'twas mine. 

IV. 

Wherefore was thisi — Because my soul had 

drawn 
Light from the book whose words are graved in 

light! 
There, at its well-head, had I found the dawn, 
And day, and noon of freedom: — but too bright 
It shines on that which man to man hath given, 
And called the truth — the very truth, from Hea- 
ven ! 
And therefore seeks he, in his brother's sight. 
To cast the mote; and therefore strives to bind 
With his strong chains to earth, what is not 
earth's — the mind! 

y. 

It is a weary and a bitter task 

Back from the lip the burning word to keep, 

And to shut out Heaven's air with falsehood's 

mask. 
And in the dark urn of the soul to heap 
Indignant feelings — making even of thought 
A buried treasure, which may but be sought 
When shadows are abroad — and night — and 

sleep. 
I might not brook it long — and thus was thrown 
Into that grave-like cell, to wither there alone. 



THE FOREST SANCTUARY. 



13 



VI. 

And I a child of danger, whose delights 
Were on darkhills and many-sounding seas — 
I, that amidst the Cordillera heights 
Had given Castilian banners to the breeze, 
And the full circle of the rainbow seen 
There, on the snows ;(13) and in my country 

been 
A mountain wanderer, from the Pyrenees 
To the Morena crags — how left I not 
Life, or the soul's life quenched, on that sepulchral 

spot? 

VII. 

Because Thou didst not leave me, oh, my God ! 
Thou wert with those that bore the truth of old 
Into the deserts from the oppressor's rod. 
And made the caverns of the rock their fold. 
And in the hidden chambers of the dead, 
Our guiding lamp with fire immortal fed. 
And met when stars met, by their beams to hold 
The free heart's communing with thee, — and 
Thou 

Wert in the midst, felt, owned — the strengthener 
. then as now ! 

VIII. 
Yet once I sank. Alas ! man's wavering mind 
Wherefore and whence the gusts that o'er it 

blowl 
How they bear with them, floating uncombined. 
The shadows of the past, that come and go. 
As o'er the deep the old long-buried things. 
Which a storm's working to the surface brings ! 
Is the reed shaken, and must u-e be so. 
With every wind! — So, Father! must we be. 
Till we can fix undimmed our steadfast eyes on 

Thee. 

IX. 

Once my soul died vvithiii me. What had 

thrown 
That sickness o'er it? — Even a passing thought 
Of a clear spring, whose side, with flowers o'er- 

grown, 
Fondly and oft my boyish steps had sought ! 
Perchance the damp roof's water-drops, tliat fell 
Just then, low tinkhng through my vaulted cell, 
Intensely heard amidst the stillness, caught 
Some tone from memory, of the music, swelling 
Ever with that fresh rill, from its deep rocky 

dwelling. 

X. 

But so my spirit's fevered longings wrought, 
Wakening, it might be, to the faint and sound, 
That from the darkness of the walls they 

brought 
A loved scene round me, visibly around. (M) 
11 



Yes! kindling, spreading, brightening, hue by 

hue. 
Like stars from midnight, through the gloom it 

grew. 
That haunt of youth, hope, manhood! — till the 

bound 
Of my shut cavern seemed dissolved, and I 
Girt by the solemn hills and burning pomp of sky. 

XL 

I looked — and lo ! the clear broad river flowing, 
Past the old Moorish ruin on the steep. 
The lone tower dark against a heaven all glow- 
ing, _ 
Like seas of glass and fire ! — I saw the sweep 
Of glorious woods far down the mountain side, 
And their still shadows in the gleaming tide. 
And the red evening on its waves asleep; 
And 'midst the scene — oh ! more than all — there 
smiled 
My child's fair face, and hers, the mother of my 
chUd! 

XII. 
With their soft eyes of love and gladness raised 
Up to the flushing sky, as when we stood 
Last by that river, and in silence gazed 
On the rich world of sunset ; — but a flood 
Of sudden tenderness my soul oppressed. 
And I rushed forward with a yearning breast, 
To clasp — alas ! a vision ! — Wave and wood, 
And gentle faces, lifted in the light 
Of day's last hectic blush, all melted from my 
sight. 

XIII. 
Then darkness ! oh ! th' unutterable gloom 
That seemed as narrowing round me, making 

less 
And less my dungeon, when, with all its bloom, 
That bright dream vanished from my loneliness ! 
It floated oflf, the beautiful! — yet left 
Such deep thirst in my soul, that thus bereft, 
I lay down, sick with passion's vain excess, 
And prayed to die. — How oft would sorrow 

weep 
Her weariness to death, if he migTit come like 

sleep' 

XIV. 

But I was roused — and how ? — It is no tale 
Even 'midst thy shades, thou wilderness, to tell ! 
I would not have my boy's young cheek made 

pale. 
Nor haunt his sunny rest with what befell 
In that drear prison-house. — His eye must grow 
More dark with thought, more earnest his fair 

brow, 
More high his heart in youthful strength must 

swell; 



H 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



So shall it fitly burn when all is told :— 
Let childhood's radiant mist the free child yet en- 
fold! 

XV. 

It is enough that through such heavy hours, 
As wring us by our fellowship of clay, 
I lived, and undegraded. We have powers 
To snatch th' oppressor's bitter joy away ! 
Shall the wild Indian, for his savage fame. 
Laugh and expire, and shall not Truth's high 

name 
Bear up her martyrs with all-conquering swayl 
It is enough that Torture may be vain — 
I had seen Alvar die— the strife was won from 
Pain. 

XVI. 

And faint not, heart of man ! though years wane 

slow ! 
There have been those that from the deepest 

caves. 
And cells of night, and fastnesses, below 
The stormy dashing of the ocean-waves, 
Down, farther down than gold lies hid, have 

nursed 
A quenchless hope, and watched their time, and 

burst 
On the bright day, like wakeners from the 

graves ! 
I was of such at last! — unchained I trod 
This green earth, taking hack my freedom from 

my God ! 

XVII. 
That was an hour to send its fadeless trace 
Down life's far sweeping tide! — A dim, wild 

night, 
Like sorrow, hung upon the soft moon's face. 
Yet how my heart leaped in her blessed hght I 
The shepherd's light —the sailor's on the sea — 
The hunter's homeward from the mountains 

free. 
Where its lone smile makes tremulously bright 
The thousand streams ! — I could but gaze 

through tears — 
Oh! what a sight is Heaven, thus first beheld for 

years ! 

XVIII. 

TherolUng clouds! — they have the whole blue 

space 
Above to sail in— all the dome of sky ! 
My tioul shot with them in their breezy race 
O'er star and gloom I — but I had yet to fly. 
As flies the hunted wolf A secret spot. 
And strange, I knew — the sunbeam knew it 

not; — 
Wildest of all the savage glens that lie 



In fair sierras, hiding their deep springs, 
And traversed but by storms, or sounding eagles' 
wings. 

XIX. 
Ay, and I met the storm there ! — I had gained 
The covert's heart with swift and stealthy 

tread : 
A moan went past me, and the dark trees rained 
Their autumn foliage rusthng on my head; 
A moan — a hollow gust — and there I stood 
Girt with majestic night, and ancient wood. 
And foaming water. — Thither might have fled 
The mountain Christian with his faith of yore, 
When Afric's tambour shook the ringing western 

shore ! 

XX. 

But through the black ravine the storm came 

swelling — 
Mighty thou art amidst the hills, thou blast ! 
In thy lone course the kingly cedars felling, 
Like plumes upon the path of battle cast ! 
A rent oak thunder'd down beside my cave — 
Booming it rush'd, as booms a deep sea-wave ; 
A falcon soar'd ; a startled wild-deer pass'd ; 
A far-ofi'bell toll'd faintly through the roar — 
How my glad spirit swept forth with the winds 
once more ! 

XXI. 

And with the arrowy lightnings! — for they 

flashed. 
Smiting the branches in their fitful play. 
And brightly shivering where the torrents dashed 
Up, even to crag and eagle's nest, their spray ! 
And there to stand amidst the pealing strife. 
The strong pines groaning with tempestuous life, 
And all the mountain-voices on their way, — 
Was it not joy 1 — 'twas joy in rushing might, 
After those years that w^ove but one long dead of 
night ! 

XXII. 

There came a softer hour, a lovelier moon. 
And lit me to my home of youth again. 
Through the dim chesnut shade, where oft at 

noon, 
By the fount's flashing burst, my head had lain, 
In gentle sleep : but now I passed as one 
That may not pause where wood-streams whis- 
pering run. 
Or light sprays tremble to a bird's wild strain, 
Because th' avenger's voice is in the wind. 
The foe's quick rustling step close on the leaves 
behind. 

XXIII. 
My home of youth I — oh ! if indeed to part 
With the soul's loved ones be a mournful thing, 



THE FOREST SANCTUARY. 



15 



When we go forth in buoyancy of heart, 
And bearing all the glories of our spring 
For life to breathe on, — is it less to meet, 
When these are faded 1 — who shall call it sweet 1 
— Even though love's mingling tears may haply 

bring 

Balm as they fall, too well their heavy showers 
Teach us how much is lost of all that once was 



XXIV. 

Not by the sunshine, with its golden glow. 
Nor the green earth, nor yet the laughing sky, 
Nor the faint flower-scents,(15) as they come 

and go 
In the soft air, like music wandering by ; 
— Oh ! not by these, th' unfailing, are we taught 
How time and sorrow on our frames have 

wrought, 
But by the saddened eye, the darkened brow, 
Of kindred aspects, and the long dim gaze, 
Which tells us we are changed, — how changed 

from other days ! 

XXV, 

Before my father — in my place of birth , 
I stood an alien. On the very floor 
Which oft had trembled to my boyish mirth. 
The love that reared me, knew my face no more ! 
There hung the antique armour, helm and crest, 
Whose every stain woke childhood in my breast, 
There drooped the banner, with the marks it bore 
Of Paynim spears ; and I, the worn in frame 
And heart, what there was 1 1 — another and the 
same! 

XXVI. 
Then bounded in a boy, with clear dark eye — 
— How should he know his father ? — when we 

parted. 
From the soft cloud which mantles infancy. 
His soul, just wakening into wonder, darted 
Its first looks round. Him followed one, the bride 
Of my young days, the wife how loved and tried ! 
Her glance met mine — I could not speak — she 

started 
With a bewildered gaze ; — until there came 
Tears to my burning eyes, and from my lips her 

name. 

XXVII. 
She knew me then ! — I murmured " Leonor .'" 
And her heart answered !— oh ! the voice is 

known 
First from all else, and swiftest to restore 
Love's buried images with one low tone, 
That strikes like lightning, when the rlieek \t. 

faded. 



And the brow heavily with thought o'ershaded, 
And all the brightness from the aspect gone ! 
— Upon my breast she sunk, when doubt was fled, 
Weeping as those may weep, that meet in wo and 
dread. 

XXVIII. 

For there we might not rest. Alas ! to leave 
Those native towers, and know that they must 

fall 
By ^w decay, and none remain to grieve 
When the weeds clustered on the lonely wall ! 
We were the last — my boy and I — the last 
Of a long line which brightly thence had passed ! 
My father ble.ssed me as I left his hall— 
— With his deep tones and sweet, though full 

of years. 
He blessed me there, and bathed my child's young 

head with tears. 

XXIX. 

I had brought sorrow on his gray hairs down, 
And cast the darkness of my branded name 
(For so he deemed it) on the clear renown, 
My own ancestral heritage of fame. 
And yet he blessed me !— Father ! if the dust 
Lie on those lips benign, my spirit's trust 
Is to behold thee yet, where grief and shame 
Dim the bright day no more; and thou wilt know 
That not through guilt thy son thus bowed thine 
age with wo ! 

XXX. 

And thou, my Leonor ! that unrepining, 
. If sad in soul, didst quit all else for me. 
When stars — the stars that earliest rise — are 

shining. 
How their soft glance unseals each thought of 

thee! 
For on our flight they smiled ; — their dewy rays. 
Through the last oUves, lit thy tearful gaxe 
Back to the home we never more might see ; 
So peissed we on, hke earth's first exiles, turning 
Fond looks where hung the sword above their Eden 

burning. 

XXXI. 

It was a wo to say — " Farewell, my Spain ! 
The sunny and the vintage land, farewell !" 
— 1 could have died upon the battle plain 
For thee, my country ! but I mijht not dwell 
In thy sweet vales, at peace. — The voice of song 
Breathes, with the myrtle scent, thy hills along ; 
The citron's glow is caught from shade and dell ; 
But what are these 1 — upon thy flowery sod 
I might not kneel, and pour my free thoughts out 
to God! 



16 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



XXXII. 
O'er the blue deep 1 fled, the chainless deep ! 
— Strange heart of man ! that e'en 'midst wo 

swells high, 
When through the foam he sees his proud bark 

sweep, 
FUnging out joyous gleams to wave and sky ! 
Yes! it swells high, whate'er he leaves behind; 
His spirit rises vdth the rising wind ; 
For, wedded to the far futurity, 
On, on, it bears him ever, and the main 
Seems rushirig, lilie his hope, some happier shore 

to gain. 

XXXIII. 
Not thus is woman. Closely her still heart 
Doth twine itself with e'en each lifeless thing, 
Wliich, long remembered, seemed to bear its part 
In her calm joys. For ever would she clino', 
A brooding dove, to that sole spot of earth 
Where she hath loved, and given her children 

birth, 
And heard their first sweet voices. There may 

Spring 
Array no path, renew no flower, no leaf, 
But hath its breath of home, its claim to farewell 

grief. 

XXXIV. 
I looked on Leonor, and if there seemed 
A cloud of more than pensiveness to rise. 
In the faint smiles that o'er her features gleamed, 
And the soft darkness of her serious eyes. 
Misty with tender gloom ; I called it nought 
But the fond exile's pang, a lingering thought 
Of her own vale, with all its melodies 
And living light of streams. Her soul would 
rest 
Beneath your shades, I said, bowers of the gor- 
geous west ! 

XXXV. 

Oh ! could we live in visions ! could we hold 
Delusion faster, longer, to our breast, 
When it shuts from us, with its mantle's fold, 
That wliich we see not, and are therefore blest ! 
But they, our loved and loving, they to whom 
We have spread out our souls in joy and gloom, 
Their looks and accents, unto ours addressed. 
Have been a language of famiUar tone 
Too long to breathe, at lagt, dark sayings and un- 
known. 



XXXVI. 

I told my heart 'twas but the exile's wo. 
Which pressed on that sweet bosom; — I de- 
ceived 
My heart but half: — a whisper ftiint and low, | 
Haunting it ever, and at times beUeved, j 



Spoke of some deeper cause. How oft we seem 
Like those that dream, and know the while they 

dream, 
'Midst the soft falls of airy voices grieved, 
And troubled while bright phantoms round them 
play, 
By a dim sense that all will float and fade away! 

XXXVII. 

Yet, as if chasing joy, I wooed the breeze, 
To speed me onward with the wings of morn. 
— Oh ! far amidst the solitary seas. 
Which were not made for man, what man hath 

borne. 
Answering their moan with his! — what thou. 

didst bear, 
My lost and loveliest ! while that secret care 
Grew terror, and thy gentle spirit, worn 
By its dull brooding weight, gave way at last, 
Beholding me as one from hope for ever cast ! 

XXXVIII. 

For unto thee, as through all change, revealed 
Mine inward being lay. In other eyes 
I had to bow me yet, and make a shield, 
To fence my burning bosom, of disguise ; 
By the still hope sustained, ere long to win 
Some sanctuary, whose green retreats within, 
My thoughts unfettered to their soiurce might 

rise. 
Like songs and scents of morn. — But thou didst 

look 
Through all my soul, and thine even unto fainting 

shook. 

XXXIX. 

Fallen, fallen, I seemed — yet, oli! not less be- 
loved, 
Though from thy love was plucked the early 

pride. 
And harshly, by a gloomy faith reproved, 
And seared vnth shame! — though each young 

flower had died, 
There was the root, — strong, living, not the less 
That all it yielded now was bitterness ; 
Yet still such love as quits not misery's side, 
Nor drops from guilt its ivy-like embrace, 
Nor turns away from death's its pale heroic face. 

XL. 

Yes! thou hast followed me through fear and 

flight; 
Thou wouldst have followed had my pathway 

led 
Even to the scaffold ; had the flashing light 
Of the raised axe made strong men shrink with 

dread, 



THE FOREST SANCTUARY. 



17 



Thou, 'midst the hush of thousands wouldst have 

been 
With thy clasped hands beside me kneeling seen, 
And meekly bowing to the shame thy head-:— 
— The shame ! — oh ! making beautiful to view 
The might of human love— fair thing! so bravely 

true! 

XLI. 

There was thine agony — to love so well 
Where fear made love life's chastener. — Here- 
tofore 
Whate'er of earth's disquiet round thee fell, 
Thy soul, o'erpassing its dim bounds, could soar 
Away to sunshine, and thy clear eye speak 
Most of the skies when grief most touched thy 

cheek. 
Now, that far brightness faded ! never more 
Couldst thou lift heavenwards, for its hope thy 
heart, 
Since at Heaven's gate it seemed that thou and I 
must part. 

XLII. 

Alas ! and life hath moments when a glance 
(If thought to sudden watchfulness be stirred,) 
A flush — a fading of the cheek percliance, 
A word — less, less — the cadence j)f a word. 
Lets in our gaze the mind's dim veil beneath. 
Thence to bring haply knowledge fraught with 

death ! 
— Even thus, what never from thy lip was heard 
Broke on my soul. — I knew that in thy sight 
I stood — howe'er beloved — a recreant from the 

Hght ! 

XLIII. 

Thy sad sweet hymn, at eve, the seas along, — 
— Oh! the deep soul it breathed! — the love, the 

wo, 
The fervor, poured in that full gush of song, 
As it went floating through the fiery glow 
Of the rich sunset ! — bringing thoughts of Spain, 
With all her vesper-voices, o'er the main, 
Which seemed responsive in its murmuring flow 
— "Ave sanctissima!" — how oft that lay 
Hath melted from my heart the martyr-strength 
away! 

Ave, sanctissima! 
'Tis night-fall on the sea; 

Ora pro nobis ! 
Our souls rise to thee ! 

Watch us, while shadows lie 
O'er the dim water spread ; 

Hear the heart's lonely sigh, 
— Thine, too, hath bled ! 



Thou that hast looked on death, 
Aid us when death is near ! 

Whisper of Heaven to faith ; 
Sweet mother, hear ! 

Ora pro nobis ! 
The wave must rock our sleep, 

Ora, mater, ora! 
The star of the deep ! 

XLIV. 

" Ora pi'o nobis, mater!" — What a spell 
Was in those notes, with day's last glory dying 
On the flushed waters! — seemed they not to 

swell 
From the far dust, wherein my sires were lying 
With crucifix and sword 1 — Oh ! yet how clear 
Comes their reproachful sweetness to mine ear! 
" Oi-a!" — with all the purple waves replying, 
AH my youth's visions rising in the strain — 
—And I had thought it much to bear the rack and 

chain ! 

XLV. 

Torture ! — the sorrow of afl^ection's eye, 
Fixing its meekness on the spirit's core, 
Deeper, and teaching more of agony. 
May pierce than many swords ! — and this I bore 
With a mute pang. Since 1 had vainly striven 
From its free springs to pour the truth of Heaven 
Into thy trembling soul, my Leonor ! 
Silence rose up where hearts no hope could share : 
— Alas! for those that love, and may not blend hi 
prayer ! 

XLVI. 

We could not pray together 'midst the deep, 
Which, like a floor of sapphire, round us lay. 
Through days of splendour, iiiglits too bright 

for sleep, 
Soft, solemn, holy ! — We were on our way 
Unto the miglity Cordillera-land, 
With men whom tales of tliat world's golden 

strand 
Had lured to leave their vines. — Oh! who shall 

say 
What thouglits rose in us, when the tropic sky 
Touched all its molten seas with sunset's alchemy? 

XLVII. 

Thoughts no more mingled ! — Then came 

night — th' intense 
Dark blue — the burning stars! — I saw Ihee 

shine 
Once more, in thy serene magnificence, 

Southern Cross 1(16) as when thy radiant sign 
First drew my gaze of youth. — No, not as then ; 

1 had been stricken by the darts of men 
Since those fresh days, and now thy light divine 



18 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



Looked on mine anguish, while within me strove 
The still small voice against the might of suffering 
love. 

XLVIII. 

But thou, the clear, the glorious! thou wert 

pouring 
Brilliance and joy upon the crystal wave, 
While she that met thy ray with eyes adoring, 
Stood in the lengthening shadow of the grave! 
— Alas! I watched her dark religious glance. 
As it still sought thee through the Heaven's ex- 
panse 
Bright Cross ! — and knew not that I watched 

what gave 
But passing lustre — shrouded soon to be — 
A soft light found no more — no more on earth or 
sea! 

XLIX. 

I knew not all — ^yet something of unrest 
Sat on my heart. Wake, ocean-wind! I said; 
Waft us to land, in leafy freshness drest. 
Where through rich clouds of foliage o'er her 

head. 
Sweet day may steal, and rills unseen go by, 
Like singing voices, and the green earth lie 
Starry with flowers, beneath her graceful tread ! 
—But the calm bound us 'midst the glassy main ; 
Ne'er was her step to bend earth's hving flowers 
again. 



Yes ! as if Heaven upon the waves were sleep- 
ing, 
Vexing my soul with quiet, there they lay. 
All moveless through their blue transparence 

keeping, 
The shadows of our sails, from day to day ; 
While she — oh! strongest is the strong heart's 

wo — 
And yet 1 live ! I feel the sunshine's glow — 
And I am he that looked, and saw decay 
Steal o'er the fair of earth, th' adored too much ! 
— It is a fearful thing to love what death may 
touch. 

LL 

A fearfiil thing that love and death may dwell 
In the same world ! — She faded on — and I — 
Blind to the last, there needed death to tell 
My trusting soul that she could fade to die ! 
Yet, ere she parted, I had marked a change, 
— But it breathed hope — 'twas beautiful, though 

strange: 
Something of gladness in the melody 
Of her low voice, and in her words a flight 
Of airy thought — alas! too perilously bright ! 



LII. 

And a clear sparkle in her glance, yet wild, 
And quick, and eager, like the flashing gaze 
Of some all wondering and awakening child, 
That first the glories of the earth surveys. 
— How could it thus deceive me "? — she had worn 
Around her, hke the dewy mists of morn, 
A pensive tenderness through happiest days. 
And a soft world of dreams had seemed to lie 
Still in her dark, and deep, and spiritual eye. 

LIII. 

And I could hope in that strange fire ! — she died. 
She died, with all its lustre on her mien ! 
— The day was melting from the waters wide, 
And through its long bright hours her thoughts 

had been, 
It seemed, with restless and unwonted yearning, 
To Spain's blue skies and dark sierras turning ; 
For her fond words were all of vintage-scene. 
And flowering myrtle, and sweet citron's 

breath — 
— Oh ! with what vivid hues life comes back oft 

on death ! 

LIV 

And from her lips the mountain-songs of old, 
In wild faiijt snatches, fitfully had sprung ; 
Songs of the orange bower, the Moorish hold, 
The ^^ Rio verde,"(ll) on her soul that hung. 
And thence flowed forth. — But now the sun was 

low. 
And watching by my side its last red glow, 
That ever stills the heart, once more she sung 
Her own soft " Or a, mater!" — and the sound 
Was even like love's farewell — so mournfully pro- 
found. 

LV. 

The boy had dropped to slumber at our feet ; — 
— "And I have lulled him to his smiling rest 
" Once more !" she said: — I raised him — it was 

sweet. 
Yet sad, to see the perfect calm which blessed 
His look that hour ;— for now her voice grew 

weak; 
And on the flowery crimson of his cheek, 
With her white lips a long, long kiss she 

pressed. 
Yet light, to wake him not. — Then sank her 

head 
Against my bursting heart— What did I clasp"? — 

the dead ! 

LVI. 

I called — to call what answers not our cries — 
By that we loved to stand unseen, unheard. 
With the loud passion of our tears and sighs 
To see but some cold glistering ringlet stirred, 



THE FOREST SANCTUARY. 



19 



And in the quenched eye's fixedness to gaze, 
All vainly searching for the parted rays ; 
This is what waits us!— Dead !— with that chill 

word 
To link our bosom-names! — For this we pour 
Our souls upon the dust — nor tremble to adore ! 

LVII. 

But the true parting came ! — I looked my last 
On the sad beauty of that slumbering face ; 
How could I think the lovely spirit passed, 
Which there had left so tenderly its trace 1 
Yet a dim awfulness was on the brow — 
No ! not Hke sleep to look upon art Thou, 
Death, death ! — she lay, a thing for earth's em- 
brace, 
To cover with spring- wreaths. — For earth's"? — 
the wave 
That gives the bier no flowers — makes moan 
above her grave ! 

LVIII. 
On the mid-seas a knell! — for man was there. 
Anguish and love — the mourner with his dead ! 
A long low-rolling knell — a voice of prayer — 
Dark glassy waters, like a desert spread. 
And the pale-shining Southern Cross on high, 
Its faint stars fading from a solemn sky, 
Where mighty clouds before the dawn grew 

red; — 
Were these things round me"? — Such o'er me- 
mory sweep 
Wildly when aught brings back that burial of the 
deep. 

LIX. 

Then the broad lonely sunrise ! — and tlie plash 
Into the sounding waves !( 18) around her head 
They parted, with a glancing moment's flash, 
Then shut — and all was still. And now thy bed 
Is of their secrets, gentlest Leonor ! 
Once fairest of young brides ! — and never more. 
Loved as thou wert, may human tear be shed 
Above thy rest ! — -No mark the proud seas keep, 
To show where he that wept may pause again to 
weep. 

LX. 

So the depths took thee ! — Oh ! the sullen sense 
Of desolation in that hour compressed ! 
Dust going down, a speck amidst th' immense 
And gloomy waters, leaving on their breast 
The trace a weed might leave there ! — Dust I — 

the thing 
Which to the heart was as a living spring 
Of joy, with fearfulness of love possessed, 
Thus sinking! — Love, joy, fear, all crushed to 

this — 
And the wide Heaven so far — so fathomless th' 

abyss ! 



LXI. 

Wliere the line sounds not, where the wrecks 

lie low, 
What shall wake thence the deadl — Blest, 

blest are they 
That earth to earth entrust; for they may know 
And tend the dwelling whence the slumberer's 

claj' 
Shall rise at last, and bid the young flowers 

bloom. 
That waft a breath of hope around the tomb, 
And kneel upon the dewy turf to pray! 
But thou, what cave hath dimly chambered 

thee? 
Vain dreams! — oh! art thou not where there is 

no more sea 1(19) 

LXII. 

The wind rose free and singing: — when for 

ever. 
O'er that sole spot of all the watery plain, 
I could have bent my sight with fond endeavour 
Down, where its treasure was, its glance to 

strain ; 
Then rose the reckless wind! — Before our prow 
The white foam flashed — ay, joyously— and thou 
Wert left with all the solitary main 
Around thee — and thy beauty in my heart. 
And thy meek sorrowing love — oh! where could 

that depart 1 

LXIII. 

I will not speak of wo ; I may not tell — 
Friend tells not such to friend — the thoughts 

which rent 
My fainting spirit, when its wild farewell 
Across the billows to thy grave was sent. 
Thou, there most lonely! — He that sits above, 
In his calm glory, will forgive the love 
His creatures bear each other, even if blent 
With a vain worship; for its close is dim 
Ever with grief, which leads the wrung soul back 

to Him! 

LXIV. 

And with a milder pang if now I bear 

To think of thee in thy forsaken rest. 

If from my heart be lifted the despair. 

The sharp remorse with healing influence 

pressed. 
If the soft eyes that visit me in sieep 
Look not reproach, though still they seem to 

weep ; 
It is that He my sacrifice hath blessed, 
And filled my bosom through its inmost cell, 
With a deep chastening sense that all at last is 

well. 



20 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



LXV. 

Yes! thou art now — Oh! wherefore doth the 

thought 
Of the wave dashing o'er thy long bright hair, 
The sea-weed into its dark tresses wrought, 
The sand thy pillow — thou that wert so fair; 
Come o'er me still 1 — Earth, earth! — it is the 

hold 
Earth ever keeps on that of earthy mould! 
But thou art breathing now in purer air, 
I well believe, and freed from all of error, 
Which blighted here the root of thy sweet life 

with terror. 

LXVI. 

And if the love which here was passing light 
Went with what died not — Oh! that this we 

knew, 
But this! — that through the silence of the night, 
. Some voice, of all the lost ones and the true. 
Would speak, and say, if in their far repose, 
We are yet aught of what we were to those 
We call the dead ! — their passionate adieu, 
Was it but breath, to perish 1 — Holier trust 
Be mine ! — thy love is there, but purified from dust ! 

LXVII. 
A thing all heavenly ! — cleared from that which 

hung 
As a dim cloud between us. heart and mind ! 
Loosed from the fear, the grief, whose tendrils 

flung 
A chain, so darkly with its growth entwined. 
This is my hope! — though when the sunset 

fades, 
When forests rock the midnight on their shades. 
When tones of wail are in the rising wind, 
Across my spirit some faint doubt may sigh ; 
For the strong hours will sway this frail mortality ! 

LXVIII. 

We have been wanderers since those days of 

wo, 
Thy boy and 1 ! — As wild birds tend their 

young, 
So have I tended him — ray bounding roe ! 
The high Peruvian solitudes among ; 
And o'er the Andes-torrents borne his form. 
Where our frail bridge hath quivered 'midst the 

storm.(20) 
— But there the war-notes of my country rung, 
And, smitten deep of Heaven and man, I fled 
To hide in shades unpierced a marked and weary 

head. 

LXIX. 

But he went on in gladness — that fair child ! 
Save when at times his bright eye seemed to 
dream, 



And his young lips, which then no longer smiled, 
Asked of his mother ! — that was but a gleam 
Of Memory, fleeting fast ; and then his play 
Through the wide Llanos(21) cheered again our 

way, 
And by the mighty Oronoco stream, 
On whose lone margin we have heard at morn. 
From the mysterious rocks, the sunrise music 
borne.(22) 

LXX. 

So like a spirit's voice ! a harping tone, 
Lovely, yet ominous to mortal ear. 
Such as might reach us from a world unknown, 
Troubling man's heart with thrills of joy and 

fear! 
'Twas sweet! — yet those deep southern shades 

oppressed 
My soul with stillness, like the calms that rest 
On melancholy waves :(23) I sighed to hear 
Once more earth's breezy sounds, her foliage 

fanned, 
And turned to seek the wilds of the red hunter's 

land. 

LXXI. 

And we have won a bower of refuge now, 
In this fresh waste, the breath of whose repose 
Hath cooled, like dew, the fever of my brow, 
And whose green oaks and cedars round me 

close, 
As temple-walls and pillars, that exclude 
Earth's haunted dreams from their free solitude; 
All, save the image and the thought of those 
Before us gone ; our loved of early years. 
Gone where affection's cup hath lost the taste of 

tears. 

LXXII. 

I see a star — eve's first-born ! — in whose train 
Past scenes, words, looks, come back. The ar- 
rowy spire 
Of the lone cypress, as of wood-girt fane, 
Rests dark and still amidst a heaven of fire ; 
The pine gives forth its odours, and the lake 
Gleams like one ruby, and the soft winds wake, 
Till every string of nature's solemn lyre 
Is touched to answer; its most secret tone 
Drawn from each tree, for each hath whispers all 
its own. 

LXXIIl. 

And hark ! another murmur on the air. 
Not of the hidden rills, or quivering shades! 
— That is the cataract's, which the breezes bear. 
Filling the leafy twilight of the glades 
With hollow surge-like sounds, as from the bed 
Of the blue mournful seas, that keep the dead 
But they are far ! — the low sun here pervades 



THE FOREST SANCTUARY 



SI 



Dim forest-arches, bathing with red gold 
Their stems, till each is made a marvel to behold, 

LXXIV. 

Gorgeous, yet full of gloom ! — In such an hour, 
The vesper-melody of dying bells • 
Wanders through Spain, from each gray con- 
vent's tower 
O'er shining rivers poured, and olive-dells, 
By every peasant heard, and muleteer. 
And hamlet, round my home : — and I am here. 
Living again through all my life's farewells, 
In these vast woods, where farewell ne'er was 
spoken, 
And sole I lift to Heaven a sad heart — yet un- 
broken ! 

LXXV. 

In such an hour are told the hermit's beads ; 
With the white sail the seaman's hymns floats 

by: 
Peace be with all ! whate'er their varying creeds. 
With all that send up holy thoughts on high ! 
Come to me, boy! — by Guadalquivir's vines, 
By every stream of Spain, as day declines, 
Man's prayers are mingled in the rosy sky. 
— We, too, will pray; nor yet unheard, my 

child ! 
Of Him whose voice we hear at eve amidst the 

wild. 

LXXVI. 

At eve? — oh! — through all hours! — From dark 

dreams oft 
Awakening, I look forth, and learn the might 
Of silitude, while thou art breathing soft. 
And low, my loved one ! on the breast of night : 
I look forth on the stars — the shadowy sleep 
Of forests — and the lake, whose gloomy deep 
Sends up red sparkles to the fire-flies' light. 
A lonely world! — even fearful to man's thought, 
But for His presence felt, whom here my soul hath 

sought. 



NOTES. 

Note 1, page 1, col. 2. 
And sighing through the feathery canes, &c. 
The canes in some parts of the American forests 
form a thick undergrowth for many hundred miles. 
— See Hodgson's Letters from North America, 
vol. i. p. 242. 

Note 2, page 1, col. 2. 
And for their birth-place moan, as moans the ocean-shell. 

Such a shell as Wordsworth has beautifully de- 
scribed. 



1 have seen 
A curious child, who dwelt upon a tract 
Of inland ground, applying to his ear 
The convolutions of a smooth-lipped shell; 
To which, in silence hu.<ihed, his very soul 
Listened intently, and his countenance soon 
Brightened with joy ; for murmurings from within 
Were heard — sonoi-ous cadences ! whereby, 
To his belief, the monitor expressed 
Mysterious union with its native sea. 
— Even such a shell the universe itself 
Is to the ear of Faith. — 7Vie Excursion. 

Note 2, page 2, col. 2. 
I see an oak before me, &c. 
" I recollect hearing a traveller, of poetical tem- 
perament expressing the kind of horror which he 
felt on beholding on the banks of the Missouri, an 
oak of prodigious size, which had been in a man- 
ner overpowered by an enormous wild grape-vine. 
The vine had clasped its huge folds round the 
trunk, and from thence had wound about every 
branch and twig, until the mighty tree had with- 
ered in its embrace. It seemed like Laocoon strug- 
gling ineffectually in the hideous coils of the mon- 
ster Python." — Bracehridge Hall. Chapter on 
Forest Trees. 

Note 4, page 4, col. 1. 

Thou hast perished 
More nobly far my Alvar ! — making known 
The might of truth. 

For a most interesting account of the Spanish 
Protestants, and the heroic devotion with which 
they met the spirit of persecution in the sixteenth 
century, see the Quarterly Review, No. 57, art. 
(Ruin's Visit to Spain. 

Note 5, page 5, col. 1. 

I look'd on two, 
Following his footsteps to the same dread place, 
For the same guilt — his sisters ! — 

"A priest, named Gonzalez, had among other 
proselytes, gained over two young females, his sis- 
ters, to the protestant faith. All three were con- 
fined in the dungeons of the Inquisition. The 
torture, repeatedly applied, could not draw from 
them the least evidence against their religious as- 
sociates. Every artifice was employed to obtain a 
recantation from the two sisters,, since the constan- 
cy and learning of Gonzalez precluded all hopes 
of a theological victory. Their answer, if not ex- 
actly logical, is wonderfully simple and afl^ecting. 
' We will die in the faith of our brother : he is too 
wise to be wrong, and too good to deceive us.' — 
The three stakes on which they died were near 
each other. The priest had been gagged till the 
moment of lighting up the wood. The few mi- 
nutes that he was allowed to speak, he employed 
in comforting his sisters, with whom he sung the 
109th Psalm, till the flames smothered their 
voices." — Ibid. 



28 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



Note 6, page 5, col. 1. 

And deem the name 
A hundred chiefs had borne, cast down by you to shame. 

The names, not only of the immediate victims 
of the Inquisition, were devoted to infamy, but 
those of all their relations were branded with the 
same indelible stain, which was likewise to descend 
as an inheritance to their latest posterity. 
Note 7, page 7, col. 1. 
'Twas not witliin the city — but in sight 
Of the snow-crowned sierras. 

The piles erected for these executions were with- 
out the towns, and the final scene of an Auto da 
Fe was sometimes, from the length of the preceding 
ceremonies, delayed till midnight. 

Note 8, page 10, col. 1. 
I would have called, adjuring the dark cloud; 
To tlie most ancient Heavens I would have said 
" — Speak to me ! show me truth !" 

For one of the most powerful and impressive 
pictures perhaps ever drawn, of a young mind 
struggling against habit and superstition in its first 
aspirations after truth, see the admirable Letters 
from, Spain by Don Leucadio Doblado. 
Note 9, page 10, col. 2. 
For thick ye girt me round, ye long-departed .' 
Dust — imaged form — with cross, and shield, and crest. 

" You walk from end to end over a floor of tomb- 
stones, inlaid in brass with the forms of the depart- 
ed, mitres, and croziers, and spears, and shields, 
and helmets, all mingled together — all worn into 
glass-like smoothness by the feet and the knees of 
long-departed worshippers. Around, on every side 
each in their separate chapel, sleep undisturbed 
from age to age the venerable ashes of the holiest 
or the loftiest that of old came thither to worship 
— their images and their dying prayers sculptured 
among the resting-places of their remains." — From 
a beautiful description of ancient Spanish Cathe- 
drals, in Peter's Letters to his Kinsfolk, 
Note 10, page 11, col. 2. 
With eyes, whose lightning laughter hath beguiled 
A thousand pangs. 
" E '1 lampeggiarde I'angelico riso. — Petrarch. 
Note 11, page 12, col. 1. 
Mighty shades 
Weaving their gorgeous tracery o'er thy head, 
With the light melting through their high arcades, 
As through a pillared cloister's. 

" Sometimes their discourse was held in the deep 
shades of moss-grown forests, whose gloom and 
interlaced boughs first suggested that Gothic ar- 
chitecture, beneath whose pointed arclies, where 
they had studied and prayed, the parti-coloured 
windows shed a tinged light ; scenes, which the 
gleams of sunshine, penetrating the deep foliage, 
and flickering on the variegated turf below, might 
have recalled to their memory." — Webster's Oror 
Hon on the Landing of the Pilgrim Fathers in 



New England. — See Hodgson's Letters from 
North America, vol. ii. p. 305. 

Note 12, page 12, col. 1. 

Bring me the sounding of the torrent- water. 
With yet a nearer swell — fresh breeze, awake! 

The varying sounds of waterfalls are thus allu- 
ded to in an interesting work of Mrs. Grant's, 
" On the opposite side the view was bounded by 
steep hills, covered with lofty pines, from which a 
waterfall descended, which not only gave anima- 
tion to the sylvan scene, but was the best barome- 
ter imaginable ; foretelling by its varied and intel- 
ligible sounds every approaching change, not only 
of the weather but of the wind." — Memoirs of an 
American Lady, vol. i. p. 143. 

Note 13, page 13, col. 1. 

And the full circle of the rainbow seen 
There, on the snows. 

The circular rainbows, occasionally seen amongst 
the Andes, are described by Ulloa. 

Note 14, page 13, col. 1. 

But so my spirit's fevered longings wrought, 
Wakening, it might be, to the faint sad sound, 
That from the darkness of the walls they brought 
A loved scene round me, visibly around. 

Many striking instances of the vividness with 
which the mind, when strongly excited, has been 
known to renovate past impressions, and embody 
them into visible imagery, are noticed and account- 
ed for in Dr. Hibbert's Philosophy of Apparitions. 
The following illustrative passage is quoted in the 
same work, from the writings of the late Dr. Fer- 
riar. " I remember that, about the age of four- 
teen, it was a source of great amusement to my- 
self, if I had been viewing any interesting object 
in the course of the day, such as a romantic ruin, 
a fine seat, or a review of a body of troops, as soon 
as evening came on, if I had occasion to go into a 
dark room, the whole scene was brought before my 
eyes with a brilliancy equal to what it had possess- 
ed in daylight, and remained visible for several mi- 
nutes. I have no doubt that dismal and frightful 
images have been thus presented to young persons 
after scenes of domestic aflliction or public horror." 

The following passage from the "Alcazar of 
Seville," a tale, or historical sketch, by the author 
of Doiilado's letters, afl^brds a further illustration 
of this subject. " When, descending fast into the 
vale of years, I strongly fix my mind's eye on those 
narrow, shady, silent streets, where I breathed the 
scented air which came rustling through the sur- 
rounding groves; where the footsteps re-echoed 
from the clean watered porches of the houses, and 
where every object spoke of quiet and contentment; 

the objects around me begin 

to fade into a mere delusion, and not only the 
thoughts, but the external sensations, which I 
then experience, revive with a reality that almost 



4 



THE FOREST SANCTUARY. 



23 



makes me shudder — it has so much the character 
of a trance, or vision." 

Note 15, page 15, col. 1. 

Nor the faint flower-scents, as they come and go 

In the soft air, like music wandering by. 
" For because the breath of flowers is farre sweet- 
er in the aire (where it comes and goes Uke the 
warbUng of music) than in the hand, therefore no- 
thing is more fit for that dehght than to know 
what be the flowers and plants which doe best per- 
fume the aire." — Lord Bacon'' s Essay on Gardens. 

Note 16, page 17, col. 2. 
I saw thee shine 

Once more, in thy serene magnificence, 

O Southern Cross ! 
" The pleasure we felt on discovering the South- 
ern Cross was warmly shared by such of the crew 
as had lived in the colonies. In the solitude of the 
seas, we hail a star as a friend from whom we have 
long been separated. Among the Portuguese and 
the Spaniards, peculiar motives seem to increase 
this feeling ; a religious sentiment attaches them 
to a constellation, the form of which recals the sign 
of the faith planted by their ancestors in the deserts 

of the New World It has been 

observed at what hour of the night, in different 
seasons, the Cross of the South is erect or inclined. 
It is a time-piece that advances very regularly near 
four minutes a day, and no other group of stars 
exhibits to the naked eye an observation of time so 
easily made. How often have we heard our guides 
exclaim in the savannahs of Venezuela, or in the 
desert extending from Lima to Truxillo, " Mid- 
night is past, the cross begins to bend !" How often 
these words reminded us of that affecting scene 
where Paul and Virginia, seated near the source 
of the river Lataniers, conversed together for the 
last time, and where the old man, at the sight of 
the Southern Cross, warns them that it is time to 
separate!" — De Humboldt's Travels. 

Note 17, page 18, col. 1 . 
Songs of the orange bower, the Moorish hold. 
The "Rio Verde." 

" Rio verde, rio verde," the popular Spanish Ro- 
mance, known to the English reader in Percy's 
translation. 

"Gentle river, gentle river, 

ho, thy streams are stained with gore ! 

Many a brave and noble captain 

Floats along thy wiUowed shore," &c. &c. 

Note 18, page 19, col. 1. 
Then the broad lonely sunrise !— and the plash 
Into the sounding waves ! — 

De Humboldt, in describing the burial of a young 



Asturian at sea, mentions the entreaty of the offi- 
ciating priest, that the body, which had been 
brouglit upon deck during the night, might not be 
committed to the waves until after sunrise, in order 
to pay it the last rites according to the usage of the 
Romisli church. 

Note 19, page 19, col. 2. 
Oh art thou not where there is no more seal 
"And there was no more sea." — Rev. chap. xxi. v. 1. 

Note 20, page 20, col. 1. 
And o'er the Andes-torrents borne his form, 
Where our frail bridge hath quivered 'midst the storm. 
The bridges over many deep chasms amongst 
the Andes are pendulous, and formed only of the 
fibres of equinoctial plants. Their tremulous mo- 
tion has afforded a striking image to one of the 
stanzas in "Gertrude of Wyoming." 
"Anon some wilder portraiture he draws. 
Of nature's savage glories he would speak; 
The loneliness of earth, that overawes. 
Where, resting by the tomb of old Cacique, 
The lama-driver, on Peruvia's peak, 
Nor voice nor living motion marlcs around. 
But storks that to the boundless forest shriek. 
Or wild-cane rich, high flung o'er gulf profound, 
Thut fluctuates when the storms of El Dorado sound. 

Note 21, page 20, col. 2. 

And then his play 
TTirough the wide Llanos cheered again our way. 
Llanos, or savannas, the great plains in South 
America. 

Note 22, page 20, col. 1. 

And by the mighty Oronoco stream. 

On whose lone margin we have heard at morn 

From the mysterious r'ocks, the sunrise-music borne. 

De Humboldt speaks of these rocks on the shores 
of the Oronoco. Travellers have heard from time 
to time subterraneous sounds proceed from them at 
run-rise, resembling those of an organ. He be- 
lieves in the existence of this mysterious music, 
although not fortunate enough to have heard it 
himself, and thinks that it may be produced by 
currents of air issuing through the crevices. 

Note23, page20, coI,2. 

Yet those deep southern shades oppressed 
My soul with stillness. 

The same distinguished traveller frequently al- 
ludes to the extreme stillness of the air in the e<]ua- 
torial regions of the new continent, and particularly 
on the thickly wooded shores of the Oronoco. " In 
this neighbourhood," he says, "no breath of wind 
ever agitates the foliage." 



24 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



The following pieces may so far be considered 
a series, as each is intended to be commemora- 
tive of some national recollection, popular cus- 
tom, or tradition. The idea was suggested by 
Herder's " Stimmen der Volker in Liedern;" 
the execution is however different, as the poems 
in his collection are chiefly translations. 

Most of those forming the present one have ap- 
peared, as well as the miscellaneous pieces at- 
tached to them, in the New Monthly Magazine. 



MOORISH BRIDAL SONG. 



It is a custom among the Moors, that a female who dies un- 
married is clothed for interment in wedding apparel, and the 
bridal song is sung over her remains before they are borne 
from her home. 

See the Narrative of a Ten Yearns Residence in 
Tripoli, by the sister-in-law of Mr. TuUy. 



The citron groves their fruit and flowers were 
strewing 

Around a Moorish palace, while the sigh 

Of low sweet summer-winds, the branches woo- 
ing, 

With music through their shadowy bowers went 

Music and voices, from the marble halls. 
Through the leaves gleaming, and the fountain- 
falls. 

A song of joy, a bridal song came swelling. 
To blend with fragrance in those southern 

shades. 
And told offcasts within the stately dwelling. 
Bright lamps, and dancing steps, and gem- 
crowned maids; 
And thus it flowed ; — yet something in the lay 
Belonged to sadness, as it died away. 

" The bride comes forth ! her tears no more are 

falling 
To leave the chamber of her infant years; 
Kind voices from a distant home are calling ; 
She comes like day-spring — she hath done with 

tears ; 
Now must her dark eye shine on other flowers, 
Her soft smile gladden other hearts than ours ! 

— Pour the rich odours round! 

" We haste! the chosen and the lovely bringing; 
Jjove still goes with her from her place of birth ; 



Deep silent joy within her soul is springing, 
Though in her glance the light no more is 

mirth ! 
Her beauty leaves us in its rosy years ; 
Her sisters weep — but she hath done with tears ! 
— Now may the timbrel sound !^' 

Knowest thou for whom they sang the bridal 

numbers'? 
— One, whose rich tresses were to wave no 

more! 
One, whose pale cheek soft winds, nor gentle 

slumbers. 
Nor Love's own sigh, to rose-tints might restore ! 
Her graceful ringlets o'er a bier were spread. — 
— Weep for the young, the beautiful, — the dead ! 



THE BIRD'S RELEASE. 



The Indians of Bengal and of the Coast of Malabar bring 
cages filled with birds to the graves of their friends, over 
which they set the birds at liberty. This custom is alluded to 
in the description of Virginia's funeral. 

See Paul and Virginia. 



Go forth, for she is gone I 
With the golden light of her wavy hair, 
She is gone to the fields of the viewless air ; 

She hath left her dwelling lone! 

Her voice hath passed away ! 
It hath passed away like a summer breeze, 
When it leaves the hills for the far blue seas, 

Where we may not trace its way. 

Go forth, and like her be free ! 
With thy radiant wing, and thy glancing eye, 
Thou hast all the range of the sunny sky, 

And what is our grief to theel 

Is it aught even to hear we mourn? 
Doth she look on the tears by her kindred shed? 
Doth she rest with the flowers o'er her gentle 
head, 

Or float on the light wind borne? 

We know not — ^but she is gone! 
Her step from the dance, her voice from the 

song, 
And the smile of her eye from the festal throng; — 

She hath left her dwelling lone ! 



LAYS OF MANY. LANDS. 



05 



When the waves at sunset shine, 
We may hear thy voice, amidst thousands more, 
In the scented veoods of our glowing shore, 

But we shall not know 'tis thine! 

Even so with the loved one flown! 
Her smile in the starlight may wander by, 
Her breath may be near in the wind's low sigh, 

Around us — but all unknown. 

Go forth, we have loosed thy chain! 
We may deck thy cage with the richest flowers, 
Which the bright day rears in our eastern bowers, 

But thou wilt not be lured again. 

Even thus may the summer pour 
All fragrant things on the land's green breast. 
And the glorious earth like a bride be dressed, 

But it wins her back no more! 



THE SWORD OF THE TOMB. 



A NORTHERN LEGEND. 



The idea of thU ballad is taken from a scene in " Stark- 
other," a tragedy by the Danish poet Ochlenschlager. The 
sepulchral fire here alluded to, and supposed to guard the 
ashes of deceased heroes, is frequently mentioned in the 
Northern Sagas, Severe sufferings to the departed spirit 
were supposed by the Scandinavja)i mytholoeists to be the 
consequence of any profanation of the sepulchre. 

See Ochlenschlager' s Plays. 



" Voice of the gifted elder time ! 
Voice of the charm and the Runic rhyme! 
Speak ! from the shades and the depths disclose, 
How Sigard may vanish his mortal foes; 
Voice of the buried past ! 

" Voice of the grave! 'tis the mighty hour, 
When night with her stars and dreams hath power. 
And my step hath been soundless on the snows, 
And the spell I have sung hath laid repose 
On the billow and the blast." 

Then the torrents of the North, 
And the forest pines were still. 
While a hollow chant came forth 
From the dark sepulchral hill. 

" There shines no sun 'midst the hidden dead. 
But where the day looks not the brave may tread ; 
There is heard no song, and no mead is poured. 
But the warrior may come to the silent board 
In the shadow of the night. 

" There is laid a sword in thy father's tomb, 
And its edge is fraught with thy foeman's doom ; 
But soft be thy step through the silence deep, 
And move not the um in the house of sleep, 
For the viewless have fearful might !" 



Then died the solemn lay, 
As a trumpet's music dies. 
By the night-wind borne away 
Through the wild and stormy skies. 

The fir-trees rocked to the wailing blast, 
As on through the forest the warrior passed, — 
Through the forest of Odin, the dim and old, 
The dark place of visions and legends, told 
By the fires of Northern pine. 

The fir-trees rocked, and the frozen ground 

Gave back to his footstep a hollow sound ; 

And it seemed that the depths of those awful 

shades, 
From the dreary gloom of their long arcades, 

Gave warning, with voice and sign. 

But the wind strange magic knows 
To call wild shape and tone 
From the gray wood's tossing boughs 
When night is on her throne. 

The pines closed o'er him with a deeper gloom, 
As he took the path to the monarch's tomb ; 
The pole-star shone, and the heavens were bright 
With the arrowy streams of the northern light, 
But his road through dimness lay I 

He passed, in the heart of that ancient wood. 
The dark shrine stained with the victim's blood : 
Nor paused, till the rock where a vaulted bed 
Had been hewn of old for the kingly dead, • 
Arose on his midnight way. 

Then first a moment's chill 
Went shuddering through his breast, 
And the steel-clad man stood still 
Before that place of rest. 

But hecrosscd at length with a deep-drawn breath, 
The threshold-floor of the hall of Death, 
And looked on the pale mysterious fire 
Which gleamed from the urn of his warrior-sire, 
With a strange and solemn light. 

Then darkly the words of the boding strain 
Like an omen rose on his soul again, 

' Soft be thy step through the silence deep, 
And move not the urn in the house of sleep, 
For the viewless have fearful might!" 

But the gleaming sword and shield 
Of many a battle-day 
Hung o'er that um, revealed 
By the tomb-fire's waveless ray. 

With a faded wreath of oak-leaves bound, 
They hung o'er the dust of the far-renowned. 
Whom the bright Valkyriur's warning voice 
Had called to the banquet where gods rejoice, 
And the rich mead flows in liglit. 



26 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



With a beating heart his son drew near, 
And still rang the verse in his thrilling ear, 
— " Soft be thy step through the silence deep, 
And move not the urn in the house of sleep, 
For the viewless have fearful might !" 

And many a Saga's rhyme, 
And legend of the grave, 
That shadowy scene and time 
Called back, to daunt the brave. 

But he raised his arm, and the flame grew dim 
And the sword in its light seemed to wave and 

swim. 
And his fajtering hand could not grasp it well — 
From the pale oak-wreath, with a clash it fell 

Through the chamber of the dead ! 

The deep tomb rang with the heavy sound, 
And the urn lay shivered in fragments round ; 
And a rush, as of tempests, quenched the fire, 
And the scattered dust of his warlike sire 
Was strewn on the Champion's head. 

One moment — and all was still 
In the slumberer's ancient hall. 
When the rock had ceased to thiill 
With the mighty weapon's fall. 

The stars were just fading, one by one, 
The clouds were just tinged by the early sun. 
When there streamed through the cavern a torch's 

flame. 
And the brother of Sigurd the valiant came 

To seek him in the tomb. 

Stretched on his shield, like the steel-girt slain 
By moonUght seen on the battle-plain. 
In a speechless trance lay the warrior there, 
But he vrildly woke when the torch's glare 
Burst on him through the gloom. 

" The morning wind blows free. 
And the hour of chase is near : 
Come forth, come forth, with me ! 
What dost thou, Sigurd, here'?" 

" I have put out the holy sepulchral fire, 
I have scattered the dust of my warrior-sire ! 
It burns on my head, and it weighs down my heart ; 
But the winds shall not wander without their part 
To strew o'er the restless deep ! 

' ' In the mantle of death he was here with me now, — 
There was vn-ath in his eye, there was gloom on 

his brow ; 
And his cold still glance on my spirit fell 
With an icy ray and a withering spell — 

Oh! chill is the house of sleep !" 

" The morning wind blows free, 
And the reddening sun shines dear ; 



Come forth, come forth, vrith me ! 
It is dark and fearful here 1" 

" He is there, he is there, with his shadowy frown! 
But gone from his head is the kingly crown. 
The crown from his head, and the spear from hia 

hand, — 
They have chased him far from the glorious land 
Where the feast of the gods is spread! 

" He must go forth alone on his phantom steed. 
He must ride o'er the grave-hills with stormy speed I 
His place is no longer at Odin's board, 
He is driven from Volhalla without his sword ! 
But the slayer shall avenge the dead !" 

That sword its fame had won 
By the fall of many a crest. 
But its fiercest work was done 
In the tomb, on Sigurd's breast ! 



VALKYRIUR SONG. 



The Valkyriur, or Fatal Sisters of Northern mytholo^, 
were supposed to single out the warriors who were to die in 
battle, and be received into the halls of Odin. 

When a Northern chief fell gloriously in war, his obsequies 
were honoured with all possible magnificence. His arms, gold 
and silver, war-horse, domestic attendants, and whatever else 
Ije held most dear, were placed with him on the pile. His de- 
pendants and friends frequently made it a point of honour to 
die with their leader, in order to attend on his shade in Val- 
halla, or the Palace of Odin. And lastly, his wife was gene- 
rally consumed with him on the same pile. 
See Mallet's Northern Antiquities, Herbert's Hegla, ^e. 

Tremblingly flashed th' inconstant meteor light, 
Showing thin forms like virgins of this earth, 
Save that all signs of human joy or grief, 
The flush of passion, smile or tear, had seemed 
On the fixed brightness of each dazzling cheek 
Strange and umiatural. 

Milman, 



The Sea-king woke from the troubled sleep 

Of a vision-haunted night, 
And he looked from his bark o'er the gloomy deep, 
And counted the streaks of light ; 
For the red sun's earUest ray 
Was to rouse his bands that day, 
To the stormy joy of fight ! 

But the dreams of rest were still on earth, 

And the silent stars on high. 
And there waved not the smoke of one cabin- 
hearth 
'Midst the quiet of the sky ; 
And along the twilight bay 
In their sleep the hamlets lay. 
For they knew not the norse were nigh ! 



LAYS OF MANY LANDS, 



27 



The Sea-king looked o'er the brooding wave : 

He turned to the dusky shore, 
And there seemed, through the arch of a tide- 
worn cave, 
A gleam, as of snow, to pour ; 
And forth, in watery light, 
Moved phantoms, dimly white, 
Which the garb of woman bore. 

Slowly th^y moved to the billow side ; 

And the forms, as they grew more clear. 
Seemed each on a tall pale steed to ride 
And a shadowy crest to rear. 
And to beckon with faint hand 
From the dark and rocky strand, 
And to point a gleaming spear. 

Then a stillness on his spirit fell, 

Before th' unearthly train, 
For he knew Valhalla's daughters well, 
The choosers of the slain ! 
And a sudden rising breeze 
Bore across the moaning seas 
To his ear their thrilling strain : 

" There are songs in Odin's Hall, 
For the brave, e'er night to fall! 
Doth the great sun hide his ray? — 
He must bring a wrathful day! 
Sleeps the falchion in its sheath 1 — 
Swords must do the work of death ! 
Regner! — sea-king ! — thcc we call ! — 
There is joy in Odin's Hall. 

" At the feast and in the song. 
Thou shalt be remembered long ! 
By the green isles of the flood 
Thou hast left thy track in blood ! 
On the earth and on the sea. 
There are those will speak of thee ! 
'Tis enough — the war-gods call — 
There is mead in Odin's Hall ! 

"Regner! tell thy fair-haired bride 
She must slumber at thy side ! 
Tell the brother of thy breast 
Even for him thy grave hath rest ! 
Tell the raven-steed which bore thee, 
When the wild wolf fled before thee, 
He too with his lord must fall — 
There is room in Odin's Hall! 

"Lo! the mighty sun looks forth — 
Arm ! thou leader of the north ! 
Lo! the mists of twiliglit fly — 
We must vanish, thou must die ! 
By the sword and by the spear, 
By the hand that knows not fear 
Sea-king ! nobly shalt thou fall ! — 
There is joy in Odin's Hall !" 



There was arming heard on land and wave, 

When afar the sunlight spread. 

And the phantom forms of the tide-worn cave 

With the mists of morning fled. 

But at eve, the kingly hand 

Of the battle-axe and brand. 

Lay cold on a pile of dead ! 



THE CAVERN OF THE THREE 
TELLS. 

SWISS TRADITION. 



The three foundevsof the Helvetic Confederacy are thought 
to sleep in a cavern near the lake of Lucerne. The herdsmen 
call them the Tliree Tells; and say that they lie there in their 
antique garb, in quiet slumber ; and when Switzerland is in 
her utmost need, they will awaken and regain the liberties of 
the land. See (Quarterly RevieiB^ No. 44. 

Tiie Griitli, where the confederates held their nightly 
meetings, is a meadow on the shore of the Lake of Lucerne, 
or Lake of the Forest-cantons, here called the Forest-sea. 



Oh! enter not yon shadowy cave, 
Seek not the bright stars there, 
Though the whispering pines that o'er it wave, 
With freshness fill the air : 

For there the Patriot Three, 
In the garb of old ajrayed, 
By their native Forest-sea 
On a rocky couch are laid. 

The Patriot Three that met of yore 

Beneath the midnight sky. 
And leagued their hearts on the Griitli shore, , 
In the name of liberty ! 

Now silently they sleep 

Amidst the hills they freed ; 
But their rest is only deep. 

Till their country's hour of need. 

They start not at the hunter's call, 

Nor the Lammcr-geycr's cry, 
Nor the rush of a sudden torrent's fall, 
Nor the Lauvvinc thundering by ! 

And the Alpine herdsman's lay, 
To a Switzcr's heart so dear! 
On the wild wind floats away, 
No more for them to hear. 

But when the battle-horn is blown 

Till the Schreckhorn's peaks reply, 
When the Jungfrau's cliffs send back the tone 
Through their eagle's lonely sky; 

When spear-heads light the lakes. 
When trumpets loose the snows, 
When the rushing war-steed shakes 
The glacier's mute repose j 



28 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



When Uri's beechen woods wave red 

In the burning hamlet's Ught ; 
Then from the cavern of the dead, 
Shall the sleepers wake in might! 

With a leap, like Tell's proud leap, 
When away the helm he flung,* 
And boldly up the steep 

From the flashing billow sprung ! 

They shall wake beside their Forest-sea, 

In the ancient garb they wore 
When they linked the hands that made us free, 
On the Griitli's moonlight shore : 

And their voices shall be heard. 

And be answered with a shout, 
Till the echoing Alps are stirred. 
And the signal-fires blaze out. 

And the land shall see such deeds again 

As those of that proud day. 
When Winkelried, on Sempach's plain. 
Through the serried spears made way ; 
And when the rocks came down 

On the dark Morganten dell, 
And the crowned casques,+ o'erthrown. 
Before our fathers fell ! 

For the Kiihreihen'st notes must never sound 

In a land that wears the chain, 
And the vines on freedom's holy ground 
Untrampled must remain! 

And the yellow harvest wave 

For no stranger's hand to reap. 
While within their silent cave 
The men of Griitli sleep ! 



SWISS SONG, 

ON THE ANNIVERSARY OF AN ANCIENT BATTLE. 



The Swiss, even to our days have continued to celebrate the 
anniversary of ancient battles with much solemnity ; assem- 
bling in the open air on tlie fields where their ancestors fought, 
to hear thanksgivings offered up by the priests, and the names 
of all who shared in the glory of the day enumerated. They 
afterwards walk in procession to chapels, always erected in 
the vicinity of such scenes, where masses are sung for the 
souls of the departed. 

See Planta's History of the Helvetic Confederacy. 



Look on the white Alps round ! 

If yet they gird a land 
Where freedom's voice and step are found. 

Forget ye not the band. 



* The point of rock on which Tell leaped from the boat of 
Gassier is mai'ked by a chapel, and called the Tellensprung. 

t Crowned helmets, as a distinction of rank, are men- 
tioned in Simond's Switzerland. 

J The Kuhreihen, the celebrated Rans des Vaches. 



The faithful band, our sires, who fell 
Here, in the narrow battle-dell ! 

If yet, the wilds among. 

Our silent hearts may burn. 
When the deep mountain-horn had rung, 
And home our steps may turn, 
— Home ! — home ! — if still that name be dear, 
Praise to the men who perished here ! 

Look on the white Alps round ! 

Up to the shining snows 
That day the stormy rolling sound, 
The sound of battle rose ! 
Their caves prolonged the trumpet's blast, 
Their dark pines trembled as it passed ! 

They saw the princely crest. 

They saw the knightly spear^ 
The banner and the mail-clad breast 
Borne down, and trampled here ! 
They saw — and glorying there they stand, 
Eternal records to the land ! 

Praise to the mountain-born. 
The brethren of the glen ! 
By them no steel-array was worn, 
They stood as peasant-men ! 
They left the vineyard and the field 
To break an empire's lance and shield ! 

Look on the white Alps round 

If yet, along their steeps. 
Our children's fearless feet may bound. 
Free as the chamois leaps : 
Teach them in song to bless the band 
Amidst whose mossy graves we stand ! 

If, by the wood-fire's blaze. 

When winter-stars gleam cold, 
The glorious tales of elder days 
May proudly yet be told. 
Forget not then the shepherd-race, 
Who made the hearth a holy place ! 

Look on the white Alps round ! 

If yet the sabbath bell 
Comes o'er them with a gladdening sound, 
Think on the battle-dell ! 
For blood first bathed its flowery sod. 
That chainless hearts might worship God ! 

THE MESSENGER-BIRD. 



Some of the native Brazilians pay great veneration to a cer- ■ 
tain bird that sings mournfully in the night-time. They say 
it is a messenger which their deceased friends and relations 
have sent, and that it brings them news from the other world. 
See Picart's Ceremonies and Religious Customs. 



Thou art come from the spirits' land, thou bird ! 
Thou art come from the spirits' land ! 



LAYS OF MANY LANDS. 



29 



Through the dark pine-grove let thy voice be heard, 
And tell of the shadowy band ! 

We know that the bowers are green and fair 

In the light of that summer shore, 
And weknow that the friends we have lost are there, 

They are there-^and they weep no more ! 

And wc know they have quenched their fever's thirst 
From the Fountain of Youth ere now,* 

For there must the stream in its freshness burst, 
Which none may find below ! 

And we knovsr that they will not be lured to earth 
From the land of deathless flowers. 

By the feast, or the dance, or the song of mirth, 
Though their hearts were once with ours ; 

Though they sat with us by the night-fire's blaze. 

And bent with us the bow. 
And heard the tales of our fathers' days, 

Which are told to others now ! 

But tell us, thou bird of the solemn strain ! 

Can those who have loved forget? 
We call — and they answer not again — 

— Do they love — do they love us yet 1 

Doth the warrior think of his brother there, 

And the father of his child 1 
And the chief, of those that were wont to share 

His wanderings through the wild 1 

We call tliem far through the silent night. 
And they speak not from cave or hill ; 

We know, thou bird ! that their land is bright. 
But say, do they love there still 1 



THE STRANGER IN LOUISIANA. 



An early traveller mentions a people on the banks of the 
Mississippi who burst into tears at the sight of a stranger. The 
reason of this is, that they fancy their deceased friends and 
relations to be only gone on a journey, and being in constant 
expectation of their return, look for them vainly amongst these 
foreign travellers. 

PicarVs Ceremonies and Religious Customs. 

" J'ai passfi moi-meme," says Chateaubriand in his Souve- 
nirs d'Amferique, " chez une peupladc indienne quise prenait 
a pleurer a la vue d'un voyageur, parce qu'il lui rappelait des 
amis partis pour la Contrct des Ames, et depuis long-teins 
en voyage." 



The light of his eye was a joy to see. 
The path of his arrows a storm to flee! 
But there came a voice from a distant shore : 
He was called — he is found 'midst his tribe no 

more ! 
He is not in his place when the night-fires bum, 
But we look for him still — he will yet return ! 
— His brother sat with a drooping brow 
In the gloom of the shadowing cypress bough, 
We roused him — we bade him no longer pine. 
For we heard a step — but the step was thine. 

We saw thee, O stranger, and wept ! 
We looked for the maid of the mournful song, 
Mournful, though sweet — she hath left us long ! 
We told her the youth of her love was gone. 
And she went forth to seek him — she passed alone; 
We hear not her voice when the woods are still, 
From the bower where it sang, like a silvery rill. 
The joy of her sire with her smile is fled, 
The winter is white on his lonely head, 
He hath none by his side when the wilds we track, 
He hath none when we rest — yet she comes not 

back! 
We looked for her eye on the feast to shine. 
For her breezy stej) — but the step was thine ! 

We saw thee, O stranger, and wept ! 
We looked for the chief who hatii leil the spear 
And the bow of his battles forgotten here ! 
We looked for the liunter, whose bride's lament 
On the wind of the forest at eve is sent : 
We looked for the first-born, whose mother's cry 
Sounds wild and shrill through the midnight sky ! 
— Where are they 1 — thou'rt seeking some distant 

coa^t — 
Oh, ask of them, sttanger ! — send back the lost! 
Tell them we mourn by the dark blue streams, 
Tell them our lives but of them are dreams ! 
Tell, how we sat in the gloom to pine, 
And to watch for a step — but the step was thine! 



THE ISLE OF FOUNTS. 

AN INDIAN TRADITION. 



We saw thee, O stranger, and wept ! 
We looked for the youth of the sunny glance. 
Whose step was the fleetest in chase or dance I 



* An expedition was actually undertaken by Juan Ponce do 
Leon, in the 16th century, vrich the view of discovering a won- 
derful fountain, beUeved by the natives of Puerto Rico to spring 
in one of the Lucayo Isles, and to possess the virtue of restor- 
ing youth to all who bathed in its waters. — See Robertson's 
History of America. 
12 



" The Rivei St. Mary has its source from a vast lake or 
marsh, which lies between Flint and Oakmulge rivers, and 
occupies a space of near three hundred miles in circuit. This 
vast accumulation of waters, in the wet season, appears as a 
lake, and contains some large islands or knolls of rich high 
land ; one of which the present generation of the Creek In- 
dians represent to be a most blissful spot of earth ; they say it 
is inhabited by a peculiar race of Indians, whose women are 
incomparably beautiful. They also tell, you that this terres- 
trial paradise has been seen by some of their enterprising 
hunters, when in pursuit of game ; but that in their endea- 
vours to approach it, they were involved in perpetual laby- 
rinths, and, like enchanted land, still as they imagined they 
had just gained it, it seemed (o fly before them, alternately ap- 



30 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



pearing and disappearing. They resolved, at length, to leave 
the delusive pui-suit, and to return, which, after a number of 
difficulties, they effected. When they reported their adven- 
tures to their countrymen, the young warriors were inflamed 
with an irresistible desire to invade, and malce a conquest of, 
so charming a country ; but all their attempts have hitherto 
proved abortive, never having been able again to find that en- 
chanting spot." 

Bartram's Travels through N. and S. Carolina, ^c. 
The additional circumstances in the Isle of Founts are mere- 
ly imaginary. 



Son of the stranger ! wouldst thou take 

O'er yon blue hills thy lonely way, 
To reach the still and shining lake 
Along whose banks the west -winds playl 
— Let no vain dreams thy heart beguile, 
Oh ! seek thou not the Fountain-Isle ! 

Lull but the mighty serpent king,* 

'Midst the gray rocks, his old domain ; 
Ward but the cougar's deadly spring, 
— Thy step that lake's green shore may gain ; 
And the bright Isle, when all is passed 
Shall vainly meet thine eye at last ! 

Yes ! there, with all its rainbow streams, 

Clear as within thine arrow's flight, 
The Isle of Founts, the Isle of dreams, 
Floats on the wave in golden light ; 
And lovely will the shadows be 
Of groves whose fruit is not for thee ! 

And breathings from their sunny flowers, 

Which are not of the things that die. 
And singing voices from their bowers 
Shall greet thee in their purple sky ; 
Soft voices, e'en like those that dwell 
Far in the green reed's hollow cell. 

Or hast thou heard the sounds that rise 

From the deep chambers of the earth "? 
The wild and wondrous melodies 

To which the ancient rocks gave birth?t 
Like that sweet song of hidden caves 
Shall swell those wood-notes o'er the waves. 

The emerald waves! — they take their hue 

And image from that sunbright shore ; 
But wouldst thou launch thy light canoe, 
And wouldst thou ply thy rapid oar. 
Before thee, hadst thou morning's speed. 
The dreamy land should still recede ! , 



* Tlie Cherolcees believe that the recesses of their moun- 
tains, overgrown with lofty pines and cedars, and covered with 
old mossy rocks, are inhabited by the kings or chiefs of tlie 
rattlesnakes, whom they denominate the "bright old inhabi- 
tants." They represent them as snakes of an enormous size, 
and which possess the power of drawing to them every living 
creature that comes within the reach of their eyes. Their 
heads arc said to be crowned with a carbuncle, of dazzling 
brightness.— See notes to Let/den's ''• Scew?!? nf hifancij." 

1 The stones on the banks of the Ornnoco, called by the 
South American missionaries i«.rosrfc Mv.sica, and alluded 
10 in a former note. 



Yet on the breeze thou still wouldst hear 

The music of its flowering shades. 
And ever should the sound be near 

Of founts that ripple through its glades ; 
The sound, and sight, and flashing ray 
Of joyous waters in their play! 

But wo for him who sees them burst 

With their bright spray-showers to the lake ; 
Earth has no spring to quench the thirst 
That semblance in his soul shall wake 
For ever pouring through his dreams. 
The gush of those untasted streams ! 

Bright, bright, in many a rocky urn, 

The waters of our deserts lie, 
Yet at the source his lip shall burn, 
Parched with the fever's agony ! 
From the blue mountains to the main, 
Our thousand floods may roll in vain. 

E'en thus our hunters came of yore 

Back from their long and weary quest ; 
-T-Had they not seen th' untrodden shore, 
And could they 'midst our wilds find rest? 
The lightning of their glance was fled. 
They dwelt amongst us as the dead ! 

They lay beside our glittering rills. 

With visions in their darkened eye. 
Their joy was not amidst the hills, 
Wheire elk and deer before us fly; 
Their spears upon the cedar hung, 
Their javelins to the wind were flung. 

They bent no more the forest-bow. 

They armed not with the warrior band. 
The moons waned o'er them dim and slow — 
— They left us for the spirit's land ! 
Beneath our pines yon greensward heap 
Show where the restless fouiid their sleep. 

Son of the stranger ! if at eve 

Silence be 'midst us in thy place. 
Yet go not where the mighty leave 
The strength of battle and of chase ! 
Let no. vain dreams thy heart beguile. 
Oh ! seek thou not the Fountain-Isle ! 



THE BENDED BOW. 



It Is supposed tliat war was anciently proclaimed in Bri- 
tain by sending messengers in different directions through the 
land, each bearing a bended bow ; and that peace was in like 
manner announced by abow unstrung, and therefore straight. 
See the Cainbrian Antiquities. 



Therf, was heard the sound of a coming foe. 
There was sent through Britain a bended bow, 



LAYS OP MANY LANDS. 



31 



And a voice was poured on tlie free winds far, 
As the land rose up at the sign of war.^ 

" Heard ye not the battle-horn 1 
— Reaper! leave thy golden corn ! 
Leave it for the birds of heaven, 
Swords must flash, and spears be riven ! 
Leave it for the winds to shed — 
Arm ! ere Britain's turf grow red !" 

And the reaper armed, like a freeman's son, 
And the bended bow and the voice passed on. 

" Hunter ! leave the mountain-chase ! 
Take the falchion from its place ! 
Let the wolf go free to-day. 
Leave him for a nobler prey ! 
Let the deer ungalled sweep by, — 
Arm thee ! Britain's foes are nigh !" 

And the hunter armed ere the chase was done, 
And the bended bow and the voice passed on. 

" Chieftain ! quit the joyous feast ! 
Stay not till the song hath ceased : 
Though the mead be foaming bright, 
Though the fire gives ruddy light, 
Leave the hearth and leave the hall- 
Arm thee ! Britain's foes must fall !" 

And the chieftain armed, and the horn was blown, 
And the bended bow and the voice passed on. 

" Prince ! thy father's deeds are told, 
In the bower and in the hold ! 
Where the goatherd's lay is sung. 
Where the minstrel's harp is strung ! 
— Foes are on thy native sea — 
Give our bards a tale of thee 1" 

And the prince came armed, like a leader's son. 
And the bended bow and the voice passed on. 

" Mother ! stay thou not thy boy ! 
He must learn the battle's joy. 
Sister! bring the sword and spear, 
Give thy brother words of cheer ! 
Maiden ! bid thy lover part, 
Britain calls the strong in heart I" 

And the bended bow and the voice passed on, 
And the bards made song for a battle won. 



HE NEVER SMILED AGAIN.* 



It is recorded of Henry the First, that after the death of his 
son, Prince William, who perished in a shipwreck off the 
coast of Norm.indy, he was never seen to smile. 



The bark that held a prince went down, 
The sweeping waves rolled on ; 



' Originally published in the Literary (Jazelte. 



And what was England's glorious crown 

To him that wept a son 7 
He lived — for life may long be borne 

Ere sorrow break its chain ; — 
Why comes not death to those who mourn 1 

— He never smiled again '. 

There stood proud forms around his throne, 

The stately and the brave, 
But which could fill the place of one. 

That one beneath the wave ? 
Before him passed the young and fair, 

In pleasure's reckless train, 
But seas dashed o'er his son's bright hair — 

— He never smiled again ! 

He sat where festal bowls went round ; 

He heard the minstrel sing., 
He saw the tourney's victor crowned. 

Amidst the knightly riiig : 
A murmur of the restless deep 

Was blent with every strain, 
A voice of winds that would not sleep— 

— He never smiled again ! 

Hearts, in that time, closed o'er the trace 

Of. vows once fondly poured, 
And strangers took the kinsman's place 

At many a joyous board ; 
Graves, which true love had bathed with tears, 

Were Icfl to Heaven's bright rain. 
Fresh hopes were born for other years — 

— He never smiled again ! 



CCEUR-DE-LION AT THE BIER OF HIS 
FATHER. 



The body of Henry ihc Second lay in state in the abbey 
clutrch of Fontevraiid, where it was visited by Richard Coeur- 
de-Lion, who, on beholding it, was struck with horror and 
remorse, and bitterly reproached himself for that rebellioua 
conduct which had been the means of bringing his father to 
an untimely grave. 



Torches were blazing clear. 

Hymns pealing deep and slow, 
Where a king lay stately on his bier. 

In the church of Fontevraud. 
Banners of battle o'er him hung, 

And warriors slept beneath, 
And light, as Noon's broad light, was flung 

On the settled face of death. 

On the settled face of death 

A strong and ruddy glare, 
Though dimmed at times by the censer's breath, 

Yet it fell still brightest there 
As if each deeply-furrowed trace 

Of earthly years to show, — 



32 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS, 



— Alas ! that sceptered mortal's race 
Had surely closed in wo ! 

The marble floor was swept 

By many a long dark stole, 
As the kneeling priests round him that slept, 

Sang mass for the parted soul ; 
And solemn were the strains they poured 

Through the stillness of the night, 
With the cross above, and the crown and sword, 

And the silent king in sight. 

There was heard a heavy clang, 

As of steel-girt men the tread. 
And the tombs and the hollow pavement rang 

With a sounding trill of dread ; 
And the holy chaunt was hushed awhile, 

As, by the torch's flame, 
A gleam of arms, up the sweeping aisle, 

With a mail-clad leader came. 

He came with haughty look, 

An eagle-glance and clear, 
But his proud heart through its breast-plate shook, 

When he stood beside the bier ! 
He stood there still with a drooping brow. 

And clasped hands o'er it raised ; — . 
For his father lay before him low, 

It was Cceur-de-Lion gazed ! 

And silently he strove 

With the workings of his breast, 
— But there 's more in late repentant love 

Than steel may keep suppressed! 
And his tears brake forth, at last, like rain — 

Men held their breath in awe. 
For his face was seen by his warrior-train. 

And he recked not that they saw. 

He looked \ipon the dead, 

And sorrow seemed to lie, 
A weight of sorrow, even like lead, 

Pale on the fast-shut eye. 
He stooped — and kissed the frozen cheek, 

And the heavy hand of clay, 
Till bursting words — ^yet all too weak — 

Gave his soul's passion way. 

"Oh, father! is it vain, 

This late remorse and deep 1 
Speak to me, father ! once again, 

I weep — behold, I weep ! 
Alas ! my guilty pride and ire! 

Were but this work undone, 
I would give England's crown, my sire! 

To hear thee bless thy son. 

" Speak to me! mighty grief 
Ere now the dust hath stirred ! 
Hear me, but hear me! — father, chief, 
My king! I must be heard! 



— Hushed, hushed — how is it that I call, 

And that thou answerest not? 
When was it thusl — wo, wo for all 

The love my soul forgot! 

" Thy silver hairs I see, 

So still, so sadly bright ! 
And father, father ! but for me, 

They had not been so white! 
/ bore thee down, high heart ! at last. 

No longer couldst thou strive; — 
Oh! for one moment of the past, 

To kneel and say — ' Forgive!' 

" Thou wert the noblest king, 

On royal throne e'er seen ; 
And thou didst wear, in knightly ring. 

Of all, the stateliest mien ; 
And thou, didst prove, where spears are proved 

In war, the bravest heart — 
— Oh ! ever the renowned and loved 

Thou wert — and there thou art! 

" Thou that my boyhood's guide 

Didst take fond joy to be ! — 
The times I've sported at thy side. 

And climbed thy parent-knee ! 
And there before the blessed shrine, 

My sire ! I see thee lie, — 
How will that sad still face of thine 

Look on me till I die !" 



THE VASSAL'S LAMENT FOR THE 
FALLEN TREE, 



" Here (at Brereton in Cheshire) is one thing incredibly 
strange, but attested, as I myself have heard, by many persons, 
and commonly believed. Before any heir of this family diea, 
there are seen, in a lake adjoining, the bodies of trees swim- 
ming on the water for several days." 

Camden's Britannia. 



Yes I I have seen the ancient oak 

On the dark deep water cast,- 
And it was not felled by the woodman's stroke, 
Or the rush of the sweeping blast; 
For the axe might never touch that tree, 
And the air was still as a summer-sea. 

I saw it fall, as falls a chief 
By an arrow in the fight. 
And the old woods shook, to their loftiest leaf 
At the crashing of its might ! 
And the startled deer to their coverts drew, 
And the spray of the lake as a fountain's flew ! 

'Tis fallen! but think thou not I weep 
For the forest's pride o'erthrown; 



LAYS OF MANY LANDS. 



33 



An old man's tears lie fur too deep, 
To be poured for this alone ! 
But by that sign too well I know, 
That a youthful head must soon be low ! 

A youthful head, with its shining hair, 

And its bright quick-flashing eye — 
— Well may I weep ! for the boy is fair, 
Too fair a thing to die ! 
But on his brow the mark is set — 
Oh! could my life redeem him yet! 

He bounded by me as I gazed 

Alone on the fatal sign, 
And it seemed like sunshine when he raised 
His joyous glance to mine ! 
With a stag's fleet step he bounded by. 
So full of life — but be must die ! 

He must, he must! in that deep dell, 

By that dark water's side, 
'Tis known that ne'er a proud tree fell. 
But an heir of his father's died. 
And he — there's laughter in his eye, 
Joy in his voice — yet he must die ! 

I've borne him in these arms, that now 

Are nerveless and unstrung ; 
Arid must I see, on that fair brow. 
The dust untimely flung "? 
I must! — yon green oak, branch and crest, 
Lies floating on the dark lake's breast ! 

The noble boy! — how proudly sprung 

The falcon from his hand ! 
It seemed like youth to see him young, 
A flower in his father's land ! 
But the hour of the knell and the dirge is nigh. 
For the tree hath fallen, and the flower must die. 

Say not 'tis vain! — I tell thee, some 

Are warned by a meteor's light. 
Or a pale bird flitting calls them home. 
Or a voice on the winds by night; 
And they must go! — and he too, he — 
— Wo for the fall of the glorious Tree ! 



THE WILD HUNTSMAN. 



It ia a popular belief in the Odenwald, that the passing of 
the Wild Huntsman announces the approach of war. He is 
supposed to issue with his train from the ruined castle of 
Rodenstein, and traverse the air to the opposite castle of 
Schnellerta. It ia confidently asserted that the sound of his 
phantom horses and hounds was heard by the Duke of Baden 
before the commencement of the last war in Germany. 



Thy rest was deep at the slumberer's hour 
If thou didst not hear the blast 



Of the savage horn, from the mountain-tower, 
As the Wild Night-Huntsman passed. 

And the roar of the stormy chase went by, 
Through the dark unquiet sky! 

The stag sprung up from his mossy bed 
When he caught the piercing sounds, 

And the oak-boughs crashed to his antlered head 
As he flew from the viewless hounds ; 

And the falcon soared from her craggy height, 
Away through the rushing night! 

The banner shook on its ancient hold. 

And the pine in its desert-place. 
As the cloud and tempest onward rolled 

With the din of the trampling race ; 
And the glens were filled with the laugh and shout, 

And the bugle, ringing out! 

From the chieftain's hand the wine-cup fell. 

At the castle's festive board. 
And a sudden pause came o'er the swell 

Of the harp's triumphal chord ; 
And the Minnesinger's* thrilling lay 

In the hall died fast away. 

The convent's chanted rite was stayed, 

And the hermit dropped his beads. 
And a trembling ran through the forest-shade. 

At the neigh of the phantom steeds, 
And the church-bells pealed to the rocking blast 

As the Wild Night-Huntsman passed. 

The storm hath swept with the chase away. 

There is stillness in the sky. 
But the mother looks on her son to-day. 

With a troubled heart and eye, 
And the maiden's brow hath a shade of care 

'Midst the gleam of her golden hair ! 

The Rhine flows bright, but its waves ere long 

Must hear the voice of war, 
And a clash of spears our hills among, 

And a trumpet from afar; 
And the brave on a bloody turf must lie, 

For the Huntsman hath gone by ! 

BRANDENBURGH HARVEST-SONG.t 

FROM THE GERMAN OP LA MOTTE POUaUE. 

The corn, in golden light, 

Waves o'er the plain; 
The sickle's gleam is bright; 

Full swells the grain. 

Now send we far around 
Our harvest lay ! 



* Minnesinger, love-singer ; the wandering minstrel) 
Germany were so called in the middle ages. 
t For the year of the Queen of Prussia's death. 



34 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



— Alas! a heavier sound 
Comes o'er the day ! 

On every breeze and knell 
The hamlets pour, — 

— We know its cause too well, 
She is no more! 

Earth shrouds with burial sod 
Her soft eye's blue, — 

— Now o'er the gifts of God 
Fall tears like dew ! 

THE SHADE OF THESEUS. 

ANCIENT GREEK TRADITION. 

Know ye not when our dead 

From sleep to battle sprung? 
— When the Persian charger's tread 

On their covering greensward rung ! 
When the trampling march of foes 

Had crushed our vines and flowers, 
When jewelled crests arose 

Through the holy laurel bowers. 

When banners caught the breeze. 
When helms in sunlight shone, 
When masts were on the seas, 
And spears on Marathon. 

There was one, a leader crovsrned, 

And armed for Greece that day ; 
But the falchions made no sound 

On his gleaming war-array. 
In the battle's front he stood, 

With his tall and shadowy crest; 
But the arrows drew no blood 

Though their path was through his breast. 

When banners caught the breeze. 
When helms in sunlight shone. 
When masts were on the seas. 
And spears on Marathon. 

His sword was seen to flash 

Where the boldest deeds were done; 
But it smote without a clash ; 

The stroke was heard by none! 
His voice was not of those 

That swelled the rolling blast, 
And his steps fell hushed like snows — 

'Twas the Shade of Theseus passed! 

When banners caught the breeze, 
When helms in sunlight shone, 
When masts were on the seas, 
And spears on Marathon. 

Far sweeping through the foe, 

With a fiery charge he bore; 
And the Mede left many a bow 

On the sounding ocean-shore, 



And the foaming waves grew red, 
And the sails were crowded fast, 

When the sons of Asia fled, 
As the Shade of Theseus passed! 

When banners caught the breeze, 
When helms in sunlight shone, 
When masts were on the seas, 
And spears on Marathon. 



ANCIENT GREEK SONG OF EXILE. 

Where is the summer, with her golden sun ! 

— That festal glory hath not passed from earth : 
For me alone the laughing day is done ! 

Where is the summer with her voice of mirth'? 
— Far in my own bright land ! 

Where are the Fauns, whose flute-notes breathe 
and die 
On the green hills 1 the founts, from sparry caves 
Through the wild places bearing melody 1 

The reeds, low whispering o'er the river waves'? 
T-Far in my own bright land ! 

Where are the temples, through the dim wood 
shining. 
The virgin-dances, and the choral strains 1 
Where the sweet sisters of my youth entwining 
The Spring's first roses for their sylvan fanes'? 
— Far in my own bright land ! 

Where are the vineyards, with their joyous 
throngs, 
The red grapes pressing when the foliage fades'? 
The lyres, the wreaths, the lovely Dorian songs, 
And the pine forests, and the oUve shades? 
— Far in my own bright land ! 

Where the deep haunted grots, the laurel bowers. 
The Dryad's footsteps, and the minstrel's 
dreams ? 
— Oh! that my life were as a southern flower's! 
I might not languish then by these chill streams, 
Far from my own bright land ! 



GREEK FUNERAL CHANT OR MYRI- 
OLOGUE. 



"Les Chants Funebres par lesquels on deplore en Grece la 
mort de ses proches, prennent le nom particulier de Myriolo- 
gia, comme qui dirait, Di.scours de lamentation, complaintes. 
Un malade vient-il de rendre le dernier soupir, sa femme, sa 
mere, ses fiUes, sessceurs, celles, en un mot, de ses plus proches 
parentes qui sont la, lui ferment les yeux et la bouche, en 
6panchant libiement, chacune selon son nature! et sa mesure 
de tendresse pour le d6funt, la douleur qu'elle ressent de sa 
perte. Ce premier devoir rempli, elles se retirent toutes chez 
une de leurs parentes ou de leurs amies. La elles changent 



LAYS OF MANY LANDS. 



35 



de vetemens, s'habillent de blanc, comme jwur la c6r6monie 
nuptiale, avec cette JifliSrence, qu'elles gardent la tete ni;e, 
les cheveux (ipajs et pendants. Ces? apprets termines, les 
parentes reviennent dans leur parure de deuil ; toiUes se ran- 
gent en circle autour du mort, et leur doulcur s'exhale de 
nouveau, et, comme la premiere fois, sans regie et sans con- 
trainte. A ces plaimes spontan6es succedent bientot des la- 
mentations d'une autre espece: ce sont les Myriologues. 
Ordinairement c'est la plus proche parente qui prononce le 
sien la premiere; apres elle les autres parentes, les amies, les 
simples voisines. Les Myriologues sont toujours compostis et 
chaiit^s par les femmes. Ds sont toujours improvis6s, tou- 
jours en vers, et toujours chanttis sur un air qui differe d'un 
lieu a un autre, mais qui, dans un lieu donn6, reste invaria- 
blement consacr6 a ce genre de poesie." 
Chants Populaires de la Grece Maderne. par C. Fauriel. 



A WAIL was heard around the bed, the death-bed 

of the young, 
Amidst her tears the Funeral Chant a mournful 

mother sung. 
— "lanthis! dost thou sleep? — Thou sleepest! — 

but this is not the rest, 
The breathing and the rosy calm, I have pillowed 

on my breast I 
I lulled thee not to this repose, lanthis ! my sweet 

son! 
As in thy glowing childhood's time by twilight I 

have done 
— How is it that I bear to stand and look upon 

thee now? 
And that I die not. seeing death on thy pale glo- 
rious brow ? 

" 1 look upon thee, thou that %vert of all most fair 

and brave ! 
I see thee wearing still too much of beauty for the 

grave ! 
Though mournfully thy smile is fixed, and heavily 

thine eye 
Hath shut above the falcon-glance that in it loved 

to lie ! 
And fast is bound the springing step, that seemed 

on breezes borne, 
When to thy couch I came and said, — ' Wake, 

hunter, wake! 'tis morn!' 
Yet art thou lovely still, my flower ! untouched by 

slow decay, 
— And I, the withered stem, remain- -I would that 

grief might slay ! 

" Oh ! ever when I met thy look, I knew that this 

would be ! 
I knew too well that length of days was not a gift 

for thee ! 
1 saw it in thy kindling cheek, and in thy bearing 

high;— 
A voice came whispering to my soul, and told me 

thou must die ! 
That thou must die, my fearless one! where 

swords were flashing red. — 



— Why doth a mother live to say — my first-born 

and my dead 1 
They tell me of thy youthful fame, they talk of 

victory won — 
— Speak thou, and I will hear ! my cliild, lanthis ! 

my sweet son!" 

A wail was heard around the bed, the deathbed 

of the young, 
A fair-haired bride the Funeral Chant amidst 

her weeping sung. 
— " lanthis ! look'st thou not on me ? — Can love 

indeed be fled? 
When was it wo before to gaze upon thy steady 

head? 
I would that I had followed thee, lanthis, my be- 
loved ! 
And stood as woman oft hath stood where faithful 

hearts arc proved ! 
That I had bound a breastplate on, and battled at 

thy side — 
— li would have been a blessed thing together 

had we died ! 

"But where was I when thou didst fall beneath 

the fatal sword ? 
Was I beside the sparkling fount, or at the peace- 
ful board ? . 
Or singing some sweet song of old, in the shadow 

of the vine. 
Or praying to the saints for thee, before the holy 

shrine ? 
And thou wert lying low the while, the life-drops 

from thy heart 
Fast gushing like a mountain-spring ! — and couldst 

thou thus depart? 
Couldst thou depart, nor on my lips pour out thy 

fleeting breath ? 
— Oh! I was with thee but in joy, that should 

have been in death ! 

"Yes! I was with thee when the dance through 

mazy rings was led, 
And when the lyre and voice were tuned, ajid 

when the feast was spread; 
But not where noble blood flowed forth, where 

sounding javelins flew — 
— Why did I hear love's first sweet words, and 

not its last adieu? 
What now can breathe of gladness more, what 

scene, what hour, what tone ? 
The blue skies fade with all their lights, they 

fade, since thou art gone ! 
Even that must leave me, that still flice. by all my 

tears unmoved — 
— Take me from this dark world with thee. 

lanthis ! my beloved !" 



36 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



A wail was heard around the bed, the death-bed 

of the young, 
Amidst her tears the Funeral Chant a mournful 

sister sung. 
" lanthis! brother of my soul ! — oh! were are now 

the days 
That laughed among the deep green hills, on all 

our infant plays'? 
When we two sported by the streams, or tracked 

them to their source, 
And like a stag's, the rocks along, was thy fleet 

fearless course ! 
— I see the pines there waving yet, I see the rills 

descend, 
I see thy bounding step no more — my brother and 
my friend ! 

"I come with flowers — for spring is come ! — lan- 
this ! art thou here ? 

I bring the garlands she hath brought, I cast them 
on thy bier ! 

Thou shouldst be crowned with victory's crown — 
but oh ! more meet they seem. 

The first faint violets of the wood, and lilies of the 
stream ! 

More meet for one so fondly loved, and laid thus 
early low — 

— Alas '. how sadly sleeps thy face amidst the sun- 
shine's glow : 

The golden glow that through thy heart was wont 
such joy to send, 

— Wo, that it smiles, and not for thee ! — my brother 
and my friend 1" 



THE PARTING SONG. 



This piece is founded on a tale related by Fauriel, in his 
"Chansons Populaires de la Grace Moderne," and accom- 
panied by some very interesting particulars respecting the ex- 
tempore parting songs, or songs of expatriation, as he informs 
us tliey are called, in which the modern Greeks are accustomed 
to pour forth their feelings on bidding farewell to their country 
and friends. 



A YOUTH went forth to exile, from a home 
Such as to early thought gives images, 
The longest treasured and most oft recalled, . 
And brightest kept, of love ; — a mountain home, 
That, with the murmur of its rocking pines 
And sounding waters, first in childhood's heart 
Wcdies the deep sense of nature unto joy. 
And half unconscious prayer ; — a Grecian home 
With the transparence of blue skies o'erhung, 
And, through the dimness of its olive shades. 
Catching the flash of fountains, and the gleam 
Of shining pillars from the fanes of old. 
And this was what he left ! — Yet many leave 
Far more; — the glistening eye, that first from 
theirs 



Called out the soul's bright smile ; the gentle hand, 
Which through the sunshine led forth infant steps 
To where the violets lay ; the tender voice 
That earliest taught them what deep melody 
Lives in affection's tones. — He left not these. 
— Happy the weeper, that but weeps to part 
With all a mother's love ! — A bitterer grief 
Was his — To part unloved! — of her unloved, 
That should have breathed upon his heart, like 

Spring, 
Fostering its young faint flowers ! 

Yet had he friends, 
And they went forth to cheer him on his way 
Unto the parting spot — and she too went, 
That mother, tearless for her youngest-born. 

The parting spot was reached : — a lone deep glen, 
Holy, perchance, of yore, for cave and fount 
Were there, and sweet- voiced echoes ; and above, 
The silence of the blue, still, upper Heaven 
Hung round the crags of Pindus, where they wore 
Their crowning snows. — Upon a rock he sprung. 
The unbeloved one, for his home to gaze 
Through the wild laurels back ; but then a light 
Broke on the stern proud sadness of his eye, 
A sudden quivering light, and from his lips 
A burst of passionate song. 

" Farewell, farewell ! 
"I hear thee, O thou rushing stream! — thou'rt 

from my native dell, 
Thou 'rt bearing thence a mournful sound — a mur- 
mur of farewell ! 
And fare thee well — flow on, my stream ! — flow on, 

thou bright and free ! 
I do but dream that in thy voice one tone laments 

for me ; 
But I have been a thing unloved, from childhood's 

loving years. 
And therefore turns my soul to thee, for thou hast 

known my tears ; 
The mountains, and the caves, and thou, my secret 

tears have known : 
The woods can tell where he hath wept, that ever 

wept alone ! 

" I see thee once again, my home ! thou 'rt there 
amidst thy vines. 

And clear upon thy gleaming roof the light of sum- 
mer sliines. 

It is a joyous hour when eve comes whispering, 
through thy groves. 

The hour that brings the son from toil, the hour 
the mother loves ! 

— The hour the mother loves ! — for me beloved it 
hath not been ; 

Yet ever in its purple smile, thou smil'st, a blessed 
scene ! 



LAYS OF MANY LANDS. 



37 



Whose quiet beauty o'er my soul through distant 

years will come — 
— Yet what but as the dead, to thee, shall I be 

then, my home 1 

" Not as the dead ! — no, not the dead ! — We speak 

of them — we keep 
Their names, like light that must not fade, within 

our bosoms deep I 
We hallow e'en the lyreth«y touched, we love the 

lay they sung, 
We pass with softer step the place they filled our 

band among ! 
But I depart like sound, like dew, like aught that 

leaves on earth 
No trace of sorrow or delight, no memory of its 

birth ! 
I go! the echo of the rock a thousand songs may 

swell 
When mine is a forgotten voice. — Woods, moun 

tains, home, farewell ! 

" And farewell, mother ! — I have borne in lonely 
silence long. 

But now the current of my .soul grows passionate 
and strong ! 

And I will speak ! though but the wind that wan- 
ders through the sky. 

And but the dark deep-rustling pines and rolling 
streams reply. 

Yes ! I will speak ! — within my breafst whate'er 
hath seemed to be, 
•There lay a hidden fount of love, that would have 
gushed for thee ! 

Brightly it would have gushed, but thou, my mo- 
ther ! thou hast thrown 

Back on the forests and the wilJs what should 
have been thine own ! 

" Then fare thee well ! I leave thee not in loneli- 
ness to pine. 

Since thou hast sons of statelier mien and fairer 
brow than mine ! 

Forgive me that thou couldst not love ! — it may be, 
that a tone 

Yet from my burning heart may pierce, through 
thine, when I am gone ! 

And thou perchance mayst weep for him on whom 
thou ne'er hast smiled. 

And the grave give his birthright back to thy ne- 
glected child ! 

Might but my spirit then return, and 'midst its kin- 
dred dwell, 

And quench its thirst with love's free tears ! — 'tis 
all a dream — farewell !" 

"Farewell!" — the echo died with that deep 

word, 
Yet died not so the late repentant pang 
By the strain quickened in the mother's breast ! 



There had passed many changes o'er her brow, 
And cheek, and eye ; but into one bright flood 
Of tears at last all melted ; and she fell 
On the glad bosom of her cliildj and cried 
" Return, return, my son!" — the echo caught 
A lovelier sound than song, and woke again, 
Murmuring — "Return, my son!" 



THE SULIOTE MOTHER. 



It is related in a Frencli Life of Ali Paclia, that several of 
the Suliote women, on the advance of the Turkish troiipsinto 
their mountain fastnesses, assembled on a lufty summit, and, 
after chanting a wild song, precipitated tliemselve.% with their 
children, into '.he chasm below, to avoid becoming the slaves 
of the enemy. 



She stood upon the loftiest peak. 

Amidst the clear blue sky, 
A bitter smile was on her cheek, 

And a dark flash in her eye. 

"Dost thou see them, boy 1 — through the dusky 

pines 
Dost thou see where the foeman's armour shines 1 
Hast thou caught the gleam of the conqueror's 

crest 7 
My babe, that I cradled on my breast ! 
Wouldst thou spring from thy mother's arms with 

joy'? 

— That sight hath cost thee a father, boy !" 

For in the rocky strait beneath, 

Lay Suliote sire and son ; 
They had heaped high the piles of death 

Before the pass was won. 

" They had crossed the torrent, and on they come! 
Wo for the mountain hearth and home! 
There, where the hunter laid by his spear, 
There, where the lyre hath been sweet to hear, ' 
There, where I sang thee, fair babe! to sleep. 
Nought but the blood-stain our trace shall keep!" 

And now the horn's loud blast was heard, 

And now the cymbal's clang, 
Till even the upper air was stirred, 

As clifT and hollow rang. 

" Hark! they bring music, my joyous child! 
What saith the trumpet to Suli's wild! 
Doth it light thine eye with so quick a fire, 
As if at a glance of thine armed sire? 

Still ! — be thou still ! — there are brave men low — 
Thou wouldst not smile couldst thou see him 
now !" 

But nearer came the clash of steel, 
And louder swelled the horn, 



38 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



And farther yet the tambour's peal 
Through the dark pass was borne. 

" Hearest thou the sound of their savage mirth 1 
— Boy ! thou wert free when I gave thee birth, 
Free, and how cherished, ray warrior's son ! 
He too hath blessed thee, as I have done ! 
Ay, and unchained must his loved ones be— 
Freedom, young Suhote ! for thee and me !" 

And from the arrowy peak she sprung. 

And fast the fair child bore, 
A veil upon the wind was flung, 

A cry — and all was o'er! 



THE FAREWELL TO THE DEAD. 



The following piece is founded on a beautiful part of the 
Greek funeral service, in which relatives and friends are in- 
vited to embrace the deceased (whose face is uncovered) and 
to bid their final adieu. 

See Christian Researches in the Mediterranean. 

'Tis hard to lay into tne earth 

A. countenance so benign! a form that walked 
But yesterday so stately o'er the earth ! 

Wilson, 



Come near! — ere yet the dust 
Soil the bright paleness of the settled brow. 
Look on your brother, and embrace him now. 

In still and solemn trust! 
Come near! — once more let kindred lips be pressed 
On his cold cheek; then bear him to his rest! 

Look yet on this young face ! 
What shall the beauty, from amongst us gone, 
Leave of its image, even where most it shone. 

Gladdening its hearth and race! 
Dim grows the semblance on man's heart im- 
pressed — 
Come near, and bear the beautiful to rest ! 



Ye weep, and it is well ! 
For tears befit earth's partings ! — Yesterday 
Song was upon the lips of this pale clay. 

And sunshine seemed to dwell 
Where'er he moved — the welcome and the bless- 
ed! 
— Now gaze! and bear the silent unto rest ! 

Look yet on him, whose eye 
Meets yours no more, in sadness or in mirth! 
Was he not fair amidst the sons of earth, 

The beings born to die? 
—But not where death has power may love be 

blessed — 
Come near ! and bear ye the beloved to rest ! 

How may the mother's heart 
Dwell on her son, and dare to hope again? 
The spring's rich promise hath been given in vain, 

The lovely must depart ! 
Is he not gone, our brightest and our best? 
Come near ! and bear the early-called to rest ! 

Look on him! is he laid 
To slumber from the harvest or the chase? 
— Too still and sad the smile upon his face, 

Yet that, even that, must fade ! 
Death holds not long unchanged his fairest guest, 
Come near! and bear the mortal to his rest! 

His voice of mirth had ceased 
Amidst the vineyards ! there is left no place 
For him whose dust receives your vain embrace, 

At the gay bridal feast ! 
Earth must take earth to moulder on her breast ; 
Come near ! weep o'er him ! bear him to his rest ! 

Yet mourn ye not as they 
Whose spirit's light is quenched! — for him the 

past 
Is sealed. He may not fall, he may not cast 

His birthright's hope away! 
All is not here of our beloved and blessed — 
—Leave ye the sleeper with his God to rest ! 



THE SIEGE OP VALENCIA. 



39 



Kilt Sbitat ot 2FiJtlencia» 

A DRAMATIC POEM. 



Judicio ha dado esta no vista Iiazana 
Del valor que en los si^los venideros 
Tendr&n los Hijos de la fuene Espana, 
Hijos de tal padres herederos. 
Hallo sola en Numancia todo quanto 
Debe con justo tiiulo caniarse. 
Y lo que puede dar materia al canto. 

Numancia de Cervantes. 



ADVERTISEMENT. 



The history of Spain records two instances of 
the severe and self-devoting heroism, which forms 
the subject of tlie following dramatic poem. The 
first of tliese occurred at the siege of Tarifa, which 
was defended in 1304 for Sancho, King of Castile, 
during the rebellion of his brother, Don Juan, by 
Guzman, surnamed the Good.* The second is 
related of Alonzo Lopez de Texeda, who, until 
his garrison had been utterly disabled by pestilence, 
maintained the city of Zamora for the children of 
Don Pedro the Cruel, against the forces of Hen- 
rique of Trastamara.t 

Impressive as were the circumstances which 
distinguished both these memorable sieges, it ap- 
peared to the author of the following pages that a 
deeper interest, as well as a stronger colour of na- 
tionality, might be imparted to the scenes in wMch 
she has feebly attempted " to describe high passions 
and high actions ;" by connecting a religious feel- 
ing with the patriotism and high-minded loyalty 
which had thus been proved "faithful unto death," 
and by surrounding her ideal dramatis personcc 
with recollections derived from the heroic legends 
of Spanish chivalry. She has, for this reason, 
employed the agency of imaginary characters, and 
fixed upon " Valencia del Cid" as the scene to 
give them 

" a local habitation and a name." 



DRAMATIS PERSONS. 
Alvar Gonzalez, Governor of Valencia. 

AlPHONSO, ) IT- c 

-, ' > . . . tiis iions. 

Carlos, j 

Hernandez, . . . . A Priest. 

Abdullah ^ A Moorish Prince, Chief of 

i the army besieging Valencia. 

Garcias, A Spanish Knight. 

Elmina, Wife to Gonzalez. 

XiMENA, Her Daughter. 

Theresa, An Attendant. 

CitizenSj Soldiers, Attendants, d^c. 

' See Quintana'3 " Vidas de Espanoles celebres," p. 53. 
1 See the Preface lo Southey's "Chronicle of the Cid." 



THE SIEGE OF VALENCIA. 

SCENE — ROOM IN A PALACE 01' VALENCIA. 
XIMENA singing to a lute. 



" Thou hast not been with a festal throng, 

At the pouring of the wine ; 
Men bear not from the Hall of Song, 
A mien so dark as thine ! 
— There's blood upon thy shield, 
There's dust upon thy plume, 
— Thou hast brought, from some disastrous field, 
That brow of wrath and gloom !" 

" And is there blood upon my shield 1 

— Maiden ! it well may be ! 
We have sent the streams from our battle-field^ 
All darkened to the sea ! 
We have given the founts a stain, 
'Midst their woods of ancient pine ; 
And the ground is wet — but not with rain, 
Deep-dyed — but not with wine ! 

" The ground is wet — but not with rain — 

We have been in war array, 
And the noblest blood of Christian Spain 
Hath bathed her soil to-day. 
I have seen the strong man die, 
And the stripling meet his fate. 
Where the mountain-winds go sounding by. 
In the Roncesvalles' Strait. 

" In the gloomy Roncesvalles' Strait 
There are helms and lances cleft ; 
And they that mbved at morn elate 
On a bed of heath are left ! 

There's many a fair young face 
Which the war steed hath gone o'er ; 
At many a board there is kept a place 
For those that come no more !" 

" Alas', for love, for woman's breast, 

If wo like this must be ! 
— Hast thou seen a youth with an eagle crest, 
And a white plume waving free 1 
With his proud quick flashing eye, 
And his mien of knightly state 1 



40 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



Doth he come from where the swords flashed high, 
In the Roncesvalles' Strait 1" 

" In the gloomy Roncesvalles' Strait 

I saw and marked him well ; 
For nobly on his steed he sate, 
When the pride of manhood fell ! 
— But it is not youth which turns 
From the field of spears again ; 
For the boy's high heart too wildly burns 
Till it rests amidst the slain !" 

" Thou canst not say that he lies low. 

The lovely and the brave ! 
Oh ! none could look on his joyous brow. 
And think upon the grave ! 
Dark, dark perchance the day 
Hath been with valour's fate, 
But he is on his homeward way. 

From the Roncesvalles' Strait !" 

" There is dust upon his joyous brow, 

And o'er his graceful head ; 
And the war-horse will not wake him now, 

Though it bruise his greensward bed ! 
— I have seen the stripling die, 
And the strong man meet his fate. 
Where the mountain-winds go sounding by, 
In the Roncesvalles' Strait !" 
ELMINA enters. 
. Elmina. Your songs are not as those of other 

days, 
Mine own Ximena ! — Where is now the young 
And buoyant spirit of the morn, which once 
Breathed in your spring-like melodies, and woke 
Joy's echo from all hearts? 

Ximena. My mother, this 
Is not the free air of our mountain-wilds ; 
And these are not the halls, wherein my voice 
First poured those gladdening strains. 

Elmina. Alas ! thy heart 
(I see it well) doth sicken for the pure 
Free-wandering breezes of the joyous hills, 
Where thy young brothers, o'er the rock and heath, 
Bound in glad boyhood, e'en as torrent-streams 
Leap brightly from the heights. Had we not been 
Within these walls thus suddenly begirt, 
Thou shouldst have tracked ere now, with step as 

light. 
Their wild wood-paths. 

Ximena. I would not but have shared 
These hours of wo and peril, though the deep 
And solemn feelings wakening at their voice. 
Claim all the wrought-up spirit to themselves. 
And will not blend with mirth. The storm doth 

hush 
All floating whispery sound, all bird-notes wild 
O' th' summer forest, filling earth and heaven 
With its own awful music. — And 'tis well ! 
Should not a hero's child be trained to hear 



The trumpet's blast unstartled, and to look 
In the fixed face of Death without dismay? 

Elmina. Wo ! wo ! that aught so gentle and so 
young 
Should thus be called to stand i' the tempest's path, 
And bear the token and the hue of death 
On a bright soul so soon ! I had not shrunk 
From mine own lot, but thou, my child, shouldst 

move 
As a light breeze of heaven, through summer- 
bowers. 
And not o'er foaming billows. We are fall'n 
On dark and evil days ! 

Xiinena. Ay, days, that wake 
All to their tasks ! — Youth may not loiter now 
In the green walks of spring; and womanhood 
Is summoned into conflicts, heretofore 
The lot of warrior souls. But we will take 
Our toils upon us nobly! Strength is born 
In the deep silence of long-suffering hearts; 
Not amidst joy. 

Elmina. Hast thou some secret wo 
That thus thou speak'st 1 

Ximena. What sorrow should be mine, 
Unknown to thee ? 

Elmina. Alas ! the baleful air 
Wherewith the pestilence in darkness walks 
Through the devoted city, like a blight 
Amidst the rose-tints of thy cheek hath fall'n. 
And wrought an early withering! — Thou hast 

crossed 
The paths of Death, and ministered to those 
O'er whom his shadow rested, till thine eye 
Hath changed its glancing sunbeam for a still. 
Deep, solemn radiance, and thy brow hath caught 
A wild and high expression, which at times 
Fades unto desolate calmness, most unlike 
What youth's bright mien should wear. My gen- 
tle child I 
I look on thee in fear ! , 

Ximena. Thou hast no cause 
To fear for me. When the wild clash of steel. 
And the deep tambour, and the heavy step 
Of armed men, break on our morning dreams ; 
When, hour by hour, the noble and the brave 
Are falling round us, and we deem it much 
To give them funeral-rites, and call them blest 
If the good sword, in its own stormy hour. 
Hath done its work upon them, ere disease 
Had chilled their fiery blood ; — it is no time 
For the light mien wherewith, in happier hours, 
We trod the woodland mazes, when young leaves 
Were whispering in the gale. — My Father comes — 
Oh ! speak of me no more. I would not shade 
His princely aspect with a thought less high 
Than his proud duties claim, 

GONZALEZ enters. 

Elmina. My noble lord ! 



THE SIEGE OF VALENCIA. 



41 



Welcome from this day's toil ! — It is the hour 
Whose shadows, as they deepen, bring repose 
Unto all weary men ; and wilt not thou 
Free thy mailed bosom from the corslet's weight, 
To rest at fail of eve 1 

Gonzalez. There may be rest 
For the tired peasant, when the vesper bell 
Doth send him to his cabin, and beneath 
His vine and olive, he may sit at eve, 
Watching his children's sport: but unto him 
Who keeps the watch-place on the mountain- 
height, 
When Heaven lets loose the storms that chasten 

realms 
— Who speaks of rest? 

Ximena. My father, shall I fill 
The wine-cup for thy lips, or bring the lute 
Whose sounds thou lovestl 

Gonzalez. If there be strains of power 
To rouse a spirit, which in triumphant scorn 
May cast off nature's feebleness, and hold 
Its proud career unshackled, dashing down 
Tears and fond thoughts to earth ; give voice to 

those ! 
I have need of such, Ximena ! we must hear 
No melting music now. 

Ximena. I know all high 
Heroic ditties of the elder time. 
Sung by the mountain-Christians,(l)in the holds 
Of th' everlasting hills, whose snows yet bear 
The print of Freedom's step ; and all wild strains 
Wherein the dark serranos* teach the rocks 
And the pine forests deeply to resound 
The praise of later champions. Wouldst thou hear 
The war song of thine ancestor, the Cid? 

Gonzalez. Ay, speak of him : for in that name 
is power, 
Such as might rescue kingdoms! Speak of him! 
We are his children! They that can look back 
I' th' annals of their house on such a name, 
How should they take dishonour by the hand, 
And o'er the threshold of their father's halls 
First lead her as a guest? 

Elmina. Oh, why is thisl 
How my heart sinks ! 

Gonzalez. It must not fail thee yet, 
Daughter of heroes! — thine inheritance 
Is strength to meet all conflicts. Thou canst num- 
ber 
In thy long line of glorious ancestry 
Men, the bright offering of whose blood hath made 
The ground it bathed e'en as an altar, whence 
High thoughts shall rise for ever. Bore they not, 
'Midst flame and sword, their witness of the Cross, 
With its victorious inspiration girt 
As with a conqueror's robe, till th' infidel 
O'erawed, shrank back before them? — Ay, the earth 

* "Serranos," mounUiineers. 



Doth call them martyrs, but their agonies 
Were of a moment, tortures whose brief aim 
Was to destroy, within whose powers and scope 
Lay naught but dust.— And earth doth call them 

martyrs ! 
Why, Heaven but claimed their blood, their lives, 

and not 
The things which grow as tendrils round their 

hearts ; 
No, not their children ! 

Elmina. Meanest thou? — knowest thou 
aught ?— 
I cannot utter it — My sons ! my sons ! 
Is itof them?— Oh! wouldst thou speak of them? 
Gonzalez. A mother's heart divineth but too 

well! 
Elmina. Speak, I adjure thee! — I can bear it 
all.— 
Where are my children? 

Gonzalez. In the Moorish camp 
Whose lines have girt the city. 

Ximena. But they live ? 
— All is not lost, my mother! 
Elmina. Say, they live. 
Gonzalez. Elmina, still they live. 
Elmijia. But captives I — They 
Whom my fond heart had imagined to itself 
Bounding from cliff to cliff amidst the wilds 
Where the rock-eagle seemed not more secure 
In its rejoicing freedom! — And my boys 
Are captives with the Moor! — Oh! how was this? 
Gonzalez. Alas ! our brave Alphonso, in the 
pride 
Of boyish daring, left our mountain-halls, 
With his young brother, eager to behold 
The face of noble war. Thence on their way 
Were the rash wanderers captured. 

Elmina. 'Tis enough. 
— And when shall they be ransomed? 

Gonzalez. There is asked 
A ransom far too high. 

Elmina. What! have we wealth 
Which might redeem a monarch, and our sons 
The while wear fetters? — Take thou all for them. 
And we will cast our worthless grandeur from us. 
As 'twere a cumbrous robe ! — Why, thou art one, 
To whose high nature pomp hath ever been 
But as the plumage to a warrior's helm. 
Worn or thrown off as lightly. And for me, 
Thou knowest not how serenely I coujd take 
The peasant's lot upon me, so my heart. 
Amidst its deep affections undisturbed. 
May dwell in silence. 

Ximena. Father! doubt thou not 
But we will bind ourselves to poverty, 
With glad devotedness, if this, but this. 
May win them back. — Distrust us not, my father! 
We can bear all things. 

Gonzalez. Can ye bear disgrace? 



455 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



Ximena. We were not horn for this, 

Gonzalez. No, thou sayst well ! 
Hold to that lofty faith.— My wife, my child! 
Hath earth no treasures richer than the gems 
Torn from her secret caverns 1 — If by them 
Chains may be riven, then let the captive spring 
Rejoicing to the light ! — But he, for whom 
Freedom and life may but be wurn with'shame. 
Hath nought to do, save fearlessly to fix 
His steadfast look on the majestic heavens, 
And proudly die ! 

Elmlna. Gonzalez, who must diel 

Gonzalez (hurriedly). They on whose lives a 
fearful price is set. 
But to be paid by treason! — Is 't enough? 
'Or must I yet seek words 1 

Elmlna. That look saith more! 
Thou canst not mean 

Gonzalez. I do! why dwells there not 
Power in a glance to speak it! — They must die ! 
They — must their names be told — Our sons must 

die 
Unless I yield the city ! 

Ximena. Oh! lookup! 
My mother, sink not thus ! — Until the grave 
Shut from our sight its victims, there is hope. 

Elmina {in a low voice). Whose knell was in 
the breeze! — No, no, not theirs! 
Whose was the blessed voice that spoke of hope? 
— And there is hope ! — I will not be subdued — 
I will not hear a whisper of despair ! 
For Nature is all powerful, and her breath 
Moves like a quickening spirit o'er the depths 
Within a father's heart. — Thou too, Gonzalez, 
Wilt tell me there is hope ! 

Gonzalez {solemnly). Hope but in Him 
Who bade the patriarch lay his fair young son 
Bound on the shrine of sacrifice, and when 
The bright steel quivered in the father's hand 
Just raised to strike, sent forth his awful voice 
Through the still clouds, and on the breathless air, 
Commanding to withhold!— Earth has no hope, 
It rests with Him. 

Elmina. T/toit canst not tell me this! 
Thou father of my sons, within who.se hands 
Doth lie thy children's fate. 

Gonzalez. If there have been 
Men in whose bosoms Nature's voice hath made 
Its accents as the solitary sound 
Of an o'erpowcring torrent, silencing 
Th' austere and yet divine remonstrances 
Whispered by faith and honour, lift thy hands. 
And, to that Heaven, which arms the brave with 

strength, 
Pray, that the father of thy sons may ne'er 
Be thus found wanting !• 

Elmina. Then their doom is scaled ! 
Thou wilt not save thy children? 

Gonzalez. Hast thou cause. 



Wife of my youth ! to deem it lies within 
The bounds of possible things, that I should link 
My name to that word — traitor? — They that sleep 
On their proud battle-fields, thv sires and mine, 
Died not for this ! 

Elmina. Oh, cold and hard of heart! 
Thou shouldst be born for empire, since thy soul 
Thus lightly from all human bonds can free 
Its haughty flight ! — Men ! men I too much is yours 
Of vantage; ye, that with a sound, a breath, 
A shadow, thus can fill the desolate space 
Of rooted up afliections, o'er whose void 
Our }'^earning hearts must wither ! — So it is, 
Dominion must be won ! — Nay, leave me not — 
My heart is bursting, and I m,ust be heard ! 
Heaven hath given power to mortal agony 
As to the elements in their hour of might 
And mastery o'er creation I — Who shall dare 
To mock that fearful strength ? — I must be heard ! 
Grive me my sons ! 

Gonzalez. That they may live to hide 
With covering hands th' indignant flush of shame 
On their young brows, when men shall speak of 

him 
They called their father ! — Was the oath, where- 

by, 

On th' altar of my faith, I bound myself, 
With an answerving spirit to maintain, 
This free and christian city for my God, 
And for my king, a writing traced on sand? 
That passionate tears should wash it from the 

earth, 
Or e'en the life-drops of a bleeding heart 
Efface it, as a billow sweeps away 
The last light vessel's wake? — Then never more 
Let man's deep vows be trusted ! — though enforced 
By all th' appeals of high remembrances, 
And silent claims o' th' sepulchres, wherein 
His fathers with their stainless glory sleep, 
On their good swords ! Thinkst thou / feel no 

pangs? 
He that hath given me sons, doth know the heart 
Whose treasures he recalls. — Of this no more. 
'Tis vain. I tell thee that th' inviolate cross 
Still, from our ancient temples, must look up 
Through the blue heavens of Spain, though at its 

foot 
I perish, with my race. Thou darest not ask 
That I, the son of warriors — men who died 
To fix it on that proud supremacy — 
Should tear the sign of our victorious faith 
From its high place of sunbeams, for the Moor 
In impious joy to trample! 
Elmina. Scorn me not 
In mine extreme of misery ! — Thou art strong — 
Thy heart is not as mine. — My brain grows wild; 
I know not what I ask!— And yet 'twere but 
Anticipating fate — since it must fall, 
That cross must fall at last! There is no power, 



THE SIEGE OF VALENCIA. 



43 



No hope within this city of the grave, 
To keep its place on- high. Her suUry air 
Breathes heavily of death, her warriors sink 
Beneath their ancient banners, ere the Moor 
Hath bent his bow against them; for the shaft 
Of pestilence flies more swiftly to its mark, 
Than the arrow of the desert. Even the skies 
O'erhang the desolate splendour of her domes 
With an ill omen's aspect, shaping forth. 
From the dull clouds, wild menacing forms and signs 
Foreboding ruin. Man might be withstood. 
But who shall cope with famine and disease. 
When leagued with armed foes?— Where now 

the aid, 
Where the long-promised lances of Castile? 
— We are forsaken, in our utmost need, 
By heaven and earth forsaken ! 

Gonzalez. If this be, 
(And yet I will not deem it) we must fall 
As men that in severe devotedness 
Have chosen their part, and bound themselves to 

death. 
Through high conviction that their suflering land, 
By the free blood of martyrdom alone, 
Shall call deliverance down. 

Elmina. Oh! I have stood 
Beside thee through tlie beating storms of life. 
With the true heart of unrepining love. 
As the poor peasant's mate doth cheerily. 
In the parched vineyard, or the harvest-field. 
Bearing her part, sustain with him the heat 
And burden of the day; — But now the hour. 
The heavy hour is come, when human strength 
Sinks down, a toil-worn pilgrim, in the dust. 
Owning that wo is mightier! — Spare me yet 
This bitter cup, my hu.sband! — Let not her. 
The mother of the lovely, sit and mourn 
In her unpeopled home, a broken stem, 
O'er its fallen roses dying ! 
Gonzalez. Urge me not_ 
Thou that through all sharp conflicts hast been 

found 
Worthy a brave man's love, oh ! urge me not 
To guilt, which through the midst of blinding 

tears, 
In its own hues thou seest not ! — Death may scarce 
Bring aught like this ! 

Elmina. All, all thy gentle race. 
The beautiful beings that around thee grew, 
Creatures of sunshine! Wilt thou doom them all? 
— She too, thy daughter — doth her smile un- 
marked 
Pass from thee, with its radiance, day by day 1 
Shadows are gathering round her — seest thou not ? 
The misty dimness of the spoiler's breath 
Hangs o'er her beauty, and the face which made 
The summer of our hearts, now doth but send 
With every glance, deep boilings through the soul, 
Telling of early fate. 



Gonzalez. I see a change 
Far nobler on her brow ! — She is as one. 
Who, at the trumpet's sudden call, hath risen 
From the gay banquet, and in scorn cast down 
The wine-cup, and the garland, and the lute 
Of festal hours, for the good spear and helm. 
Beseeming sterner tasks, — Her eye hath lost 
The beam which laughed upon th' awakening 

heart. 
E'en as morn breaks o'er earth. But far within 
Its full dark orb, a light hath sprung, whose source 
Lies deeper in the soul. — And let the torch 
Which but illumed the glittering pageant, fade! 
The altar-flame, i' th' sanctuary's recess. 
Burns quenchless, being of heaven! — She hath 

put on 
Courage, and faith, and generous constancy. 
Even as a breastplate — Ay, men look on her, 
As she goes forth serenely to her tasks. 
Binding the warrior's wounds, and bearing fresh 
Cool draughts to fevered lips ; they look on her, 
Thus moving in her beautiful array 
Of gentle fortitude, and bless the fair 
Majestic vision, and unmurmuring turn 
Unto their heavy toils. 

Elmina. And seest thou not 
In that high faith and strong collectedness, 
A fearful inspiration! — They have cause 
To tremble, who behold th' unearthly light 
Of high, and, it may be, prophetic thought. 
Investing youth with grandeur ! — From the grave 
It rises, on whose shadowy brink thy child 
Waits but a father's hand to snatch her back 
Into the laughing sunshine. — Kneel with me, 
Ximena, kneel beside me, and implore 
That which a deeper, more prevailing voice 
Than ours doth ask, and will not be denied; 
— His children's lives ! 

Ximena. Alas ! this may not be. 
Mother! — I can not. [Exit Ximena, 

Gonzalez. My heroic child ! 
— A terrible sacrifice thou claimest, O God ! 
From creatures in whose agonizing heart.s 
Nature is strong as death! 

Elmina. Is't thus in thine 1 
Away! — what time is given thee to resolve 
On 1 — what I cannot utter! — Speak ! thou knowest 
Too well what I would say. 

Gonzalez. Until — ask not ! 
The time is brief. 

Elmina. Thou saidst — I heard not right — 

Gonzalez. The time is brief 

Elmina. What! must we burst all ties 
Wherewith the thrilling chords of life are twined ; 
And, for this task's fulfilment, can it be 
That man, in his cold heartlcssness, hath dared 
To number and to mete us forth the sands 
Of hours, nay, moments?— Why the sentenced 
wretch, 



44 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



IIo on whoso soul there rosls a brother's blooil 
Poureil forth in shiinbor, is allowed more time 
To wean his turbulent passions from the world 
His presence doth pollute! — It. is not thus! 
We must have Time to school us. 

Gonzalez. We have but 
To Ixnv the head in silenc?, when Heaven's voice 
Calls back the things we love. 

Ehnina. Love! love ! — there arc soft smiles and 

gentle words, 
And there arc faces, skilful to put on 
The look we trust in — and 'tis mockery all! 
— A faithless mist, a desert-vaponr wearing 
The brightness of clear waters, thus to cheat 
The thirst that semblance kindled !— There is 

none, 
In all this cold and hollow world, no fount 
Of deep, strong, deathless love, save that within 
A mother's heart. — It is but pride, wherewith 
To his fiiir son the father's eye doth turn, 
Watching his growth. Ay, on the boy he looks, 
The bright glad creature springing in his path 
But as the heir of his great name, the young 
And stately tree, whose rising strength ere long 
Shall tear his trophies well. — And this is love ! 
This is man's love! — What marvel? — ^ou ne'er 

made 
Your breast the pillow of his infancy, 
While to the fulness of your heart's glad heavings 
His tair cheek rose and fell; and his bright hair 
Waved softly to your breath! — You ne'er kept 

watch 
Beside him, till the last pale star had set. 
And morn, all dazzling, as in triumph, broke 
On your dim weary eye; not yours the face 
Which, early faded through fond care for him. 
Hung o'er his sleep, and duly as Heaven's light, 
Was there to greet liis wakening! You ne'er 

smoothed 
His couch, ne'er sung him to his rosy rest. 
Caught his least whisper, when his voice from yours 
Had learned soft utterance ; pressed your lip to his 
When fever parched it; hushed his wayward cries, 
With patient, vigilant, never-wearied love ! 
iXo ! these are woman's tasks ! — In these her 

youth, 
And bloom of cheek, and buoyancy of heart, 
Steal from her all unmarked ! — jNly boys ! my 

bo}"s! 
Hath vain affection borne with all for this 1 
— Why were ye given me 1 

Gonzalez. Is there strength in man 
Thus to endure 1 — That thou couldst read thro' all 
Its depths of silent agony, the heart 
Thv voice of wo doth rend ! 

Elniinu. Thy heart! — thy heart! — Away! it 

feels not now ! 
But an hour comes to tame the mighty man 
Unto the infant's weakness; nor shall Heaven 



Spare you that bitter chastening ! May you live 
To be alone, when lonehness doth seem 
Most heavy to sustain! — For me, my voice 
Of prayer, and fruitless weeping shall be soon 
With all forgotten sounds; my quiet place 
Low with my lovely ones, and we shall sleep. 
Though kings lead armies o'er us, we shall sleep, 
Wrapt in earth's covering mantle! you the while 
Shall sit within your vast, forsaken halls, 
And hear the wild and melancholy winds 
Moan through their drooping banners, never more 
To wave above your race. Ay, then call up 
Shadows — dim phantoms from ancestral tombs, 
But all — all glorious — conquerors, chieftains, 

kings 
To people that cold void ! — And when the strength 
From your right arm hath melted, when the blast 
Of the shrill clarion gives your heart no more 
A fiery wakening; if at last you pine 
For the glad voices, and the bounding steps 
Once through your home re-echoing, and the clasp 
Of twining arms, and all the joyous light 
Of eyes that laughed with youth, and made your 

hoard 
A place of sunshine; — When those days are come, 
Then, in your utter desolation, turn 
To the cold world, the smilinii, faithless world, 
"Which hath swept past you long, and bid it 

quench 
Your soul's deep thirst with/aj?!C.' immortal ./'a7Jiei 
Fame to the sick of heart ! — a gorgeous robe, 
A crown of victory, unto him that dies 
r th' burning waste, for water! 

Gonzalez. This from ^/lee.' 
Now the last drop of bitterness is poured. 
Elmina — I forgive thee ! [Exit Elmina. 

Aid me. Heaven ! 

From whom alone is power ! — Oh ! thou hast set 
Duties, so stern of aspect, in my path, 
They almost, to my startled gaze, assume 
The hue of things less hallowed ! Men have sunk 
Unhlamed beneath such trials ! — Doth not he 
Who made us know the limits of our strength 1 
My wife ! my sons ! — Away ! I must not pause 
To give my heart one moment's mastery thus ! 
[Exit Gonzalez 

SCENE — THE AISLE OF A GOTHIC CHITRCH. 

HERNANDEZ, GARCLVS, and others. 

Hernandez. The rites are closed. Now, valiant 
men, depart. 
Each to his place — I may not say, of rest; 
Your faithful vigils for your sons may win 
What must not be your own. Ye are as those 
Who sow, in peril and in care, the seed 
Of the fair tree, beneath whose stately shade 
They may not sit. But blessed be they who toil 
For after-days ! — All high and holy thoughts 



THE SIEGE OF VALENCIA. 



45 



Be with you, warriors, through the lingering hours ' Through the dull glare, broad cloudy banners forth, 
Of the night-watch ! And charioU seemed to whirl, and fite€<]s to «ink, 

Garcias. Ay, father! we have need i Bearing down cretrted warriors. But all thi^ 

Of high anJ holy thoughts, v/ here with to fence | Wasdiniandsiiadowy; — tiienswiftdarkness rushed 
Qur hearts against despair. Yet have I lieen | Down on tii' uneart.ily iiattle, as the deep 
From youth a son of war. The stars have looked .Swept o'er the Egyptian's armament. — I looked— 
A thousand ^ilne8 ujwn my couch of heath. And all that fiery field of plumes and spears 

Spread 'midst the wild sierras, by some stream Was blotted from heaven's face! — 1 look&J again — 
Whose dark-red waves looked e en as though their , And from the brooding m-am of clouds leaped forth 



source 
Lay not in rocky caverns, but the veins 
Of noble hearts; while many a knightly crest 



One. meteor-sword, which o'er the reddening sea 
Siiook with strange motion. such as earthquakes give 
Unto a rocking citadel! — 1 ijeheld, 



RolIe<l with them to the deep. And in the years And yet my spirit sunkuot, 



Of my long exile and captivity, 
With the fierce "Arab, 1 have watched Ijeneath 
The still, pale shadow of some lonely palm. 
At midnight, in t'le dpsf-rt: while the wind 
Swelled with the lion's ro^, anJ hpavily 
The fi-arfulrfess and might of solitude 
Pressed on rny weary heart. 



Garcia^. Neither deem 
Tliat mine hath blenched. — But these are sights 

and sounds • 
To awe the firaest. — Knowest thou what we hear 
At midnight from the walls? — Were 't but the deep 
Barbaric horn, or Moorish tambour's peal, 
Thence might the warrior's heart catch impulses, 



Hernandez (ifwughtfvlly.) Thou little knowest duickening its fiery currents. But our ears 



Of what is solitude ! — 1 tell thee, those 

For whom — in earth's rernotert nook— howe'er 

Oivided from their path by chain on chain 

Of mighty mountains, and the amplitude 

Of rolling seas — tliere beats one human heart, 

There breathes one being unto whom their name 

Come.? with a thrilling and a glzuldening sound. 

Heard o'er the din of life ! are not alone ! 

Not on the deep, nor in the wild, alone; 

For there is that on earth with which th?y hold 

A brotherhood of soul ! — Call him alone. 

Who stands shut out from this ! — And let not those j As the free sky's glad music u.'ito hizn 

Whose homes are bright with sua^hine and with^ Who leave.-* a couch of sickness. 



Are pierced by other tones. We bear the knefl 
For brave men in their noon of strength cut down. 
And the shrill w^il of wortian, and the dirge 
Faint swelling through the streets. Then e'en 

the air 
Hath strange ana fitful murmurs of lament, 
As if the viewless watchers of the land 
Sighed on its hollow breezes ! — To my soul, 
The torrent-rush of battle, with iu din 
Of trampling steeds and ringing panoply, 
Were, after these faint sounds of drooping wo 



love, 
Put on the insolence of happiness, 
Glorying in that proud lot; — A lonely boar 
Is on its way to each, to all ; &ii Death 
Knows no comjwinionship. 

Garcias. I have looked on Death 
In field, and sUiTtn, and flood. But never yet 
Hath aught weighed down my spirit to a mood 
Of sadness, dreaming o'er dark au^juries, 



Hernandez {wilh, solemnity.) If to plunge 
In the mid-waves of combat, as they bear 
Chargers and sfiearmen onwards; and to make 
A reckless liosom's front the buoyant mark 
On that wild current, for ten thflusand arrows; 
If thus to dare were valour's noblest aim, 
Lightly might fame be won ! — but there aretbiogs 
Which ju-k a spirit of more exalted pitch, 
And courage tempered with a holier fire ! 
Like this, our vjatch by midnight, i-'earful things Well mayst thou say, that these are fearful times, 
Are gathering round us. Death U[>on the earth, i Therefore be firm, be patient I — There is strength, 
Omens in Heaven ! — The summer-skies put forth And a fierce instinct, e'en in common souls, 



No clear bright stars above us, but af times, 
Catching some comet's fiery hue of wrath, 
Marshall their clouds to armies, traversing 
Heaven wilh the rush of rneteor-steeds, the array 
Of spears and banners, tossing like the pines 
Of Pyrenean forests, when the storm 
Doth sweep the mountains. 

Hernandez. Ay, last night I too 
Kept vigil, gazing on the angry heavens; 
And I beheld the meeting and the shock 



To bear up manliood with a stormy joy, 
i When red swords meet in lightning! — but otir task 
lis more, and nobler! — We have to endure, 

And to keep watch, and to arouse a land, 
' And to defend an altar^. — If we fall, 
; So that oar blood make but the millionth part 
I Of Spain's great ransom, we may count it joy 
! To die upon her bosom, and beneath 
; The banner of her faith I — Think but on thi^ij'; 

And gird your hearts with silent fortitude, ^^* ■ 



Of those wild hosts r th' air, when, as they closed, Suffering, yet hoping all things — Fare ye weD. 
A red and sultry mist, like that which mantles Garcias. Father, farewell. 

The thunder's path, fell o'er them. Then were flung ^ [Exeunt GarciuM and ki* foUotDen, 

13 



46 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS, 



Hernandez. These men have earthly ties* 
And bondage on their natures! — To the cause 
Of God, and Spain's revenge, they bring but half 
Their energies and hopes.. But he wlioni Heaven 
Hath called to be th' awakener of a land, 
Should have his soul's affections all absorbed 
In that majestic purpose, and press on 
To its fulfilment, as a mountain-born 
And a mighty stream, witii all its vassal-rills 
Sweeps proudly to the ocean, pausing not 
To dally with the flowers. 
Hark! What quick step 

Comes hurrying through the gloom at this dead 
hourl 

ELMINA. enters. 

Elmina. Are not all hours as one to misery? — 



Why 
Should she take note of time, for whom the day 
And night have lost their blessed attributes 
Of sunshine and repose? 

Hernandez. I know thy griefs; 
But there are trials for the noble heart 
Wherein its own deep fountains must supply 
All it can hope of comfort. Pity's voice 
Comes with vain sweetness to th' unheeding ear 
Of anguish, e'en as music heard afar 
On the green shore, by him who perishes 
'Midst rocks and eddying waters. 

Elmina. Think thou not 
I sought thee but for pity. I am come 
For that which grief is privileged to demand 
Witji an imperious claim, from all whose form, 
Whose human form, doth sea,! them unto suflering ! 
Father! I ask thine aid. 

Hernandez. There is no aid 
For thee or for thy children, but with Him ' 
Whose presence is around us in the cloud, 
As in the shining and the glorious light. 

Elmina. There is no aid ! — Art thou a man 
of God 1 
Art thou a man of sorrow — (for the world 
Doth call thee such) — and hast thou not been 

taught 
By God and sorrow — mighty as they are, 
To own the claims of misery 1 
Hernandez. Is there power 
With me to save thy sons 1 — Implore of Heaven ! 
Elmina. Doth not Heaven work its purposes 
by man 1 
I tell thee, tliou canst save them ! — Art thou not 
Gonzalez' counsellor? — Unto him thy words 

Are e'en as oracles 

Hernandez. And therefore ? — Speak !. ' 

The noble daughter of Pelayo's hne 
Hath nought to ask, unworthy of the name 

Which is a nation's heritage.— Dost thou shrink? No limits unto that which man's high strength 
Elmina. Have pity on me, father !— I must Shall, through its aid, achieve ! 
speak ' Elmina. Oh! there are times, 



That, from the thought of which, but yesterday, 

I had recoik^d in scorn! — But this is past. 

Oil! we grow huml)le in our agonies, 

And to tile dust — their birth-place — bow the heads 

That wore the crown of glory ! — I am weak — 

My chastening is far more than I can bear. 

Hernandez. These are no times fiar weakness. 
On our hills 
The ancient cedars, in their gathered might, 
Are battling with the tempest; and the flower 
Which can not meet its driving b'ast must die. 
— But thou hast drawn tliy nurture from a stem 
Unwont to bend or break. Lift thy proud head, 
Daughter of Spain ! — What wouldst thou with thy 
lord? • • 

Elmina. Look not upon me thus ! — I have no 
power 
To tell thee. Take thy. keen disdainful eye 
Off from my soul! — What! am I sunk to this? 
I, whose blood sprung from heroes ! — How my sons 
Will scorn the mother that would bring disgrace 
On their majestic line ! — My sons ! my sons ! 
— Now is all else forgotten ! — I had once 
A babe that in the early spring-time lay 
Sickening upon my bosom, till at last, 
When earth's young flowers were opening to the 

sun, 
Dgath sunk on his meek eyelid, and I deemed 
All sorrow light 'to mine ! — 6ut now the fate 
Of all my children seems to brood above me 
In the dark thunder-clouds! — Oh ! I have power 
And voice unfaltering now to speak my prayer 
And my last lingering hope, that thou shouldst 

win 
The father to relent, to save his sons 1 
Hernandez. By yielding up the city ? 
Elmina. Rather say 
By meeting tliat which gathers close upon us 
Perchance one day the sooner ! — Is't not so? 
Must we not yield at last? — How long shall man 
Array his single breast against disease, 
And famine, and the sword ? 

Hernandez. How long? — While he, 
Who shadows forth his power more gloriously 
In the high deeds and sufferings of tiie soul, 
Than in tiie circling, heavens, with all their stars, 
Or tiie far-sounding deep, doth send abroad 
A s])irit, which takes affliction for its mate. 
In the good cause, witli solemn joy ! — How long 1 
— And who art thuu, that, in the littleness 
Of thine own selfish purpose, wouldst set bounds 
To the free current of all noble thought 
And generous action, bidding its bright waves 
Be stayed, and flow no further] — But the Power 
Whose interdict is laid on seas and orbs, 
To chain them in from wandering, hath assigned 



THE SIEGE OP VALENCIA. 



47 



When all that hopeless courage can achieve 
But sheds a niournt'ul beauty o'er the fate 
Of those who die in vain. 

Hernandez. Who dies in vain 
Upon his country's war-fields, and within 
The shadow of her altars'? — Feeble heart! 
I tell thee that the voice of noble blood, 
Thus poured for faith and freedom, hath a tone 
Wiiich, from the night of ages, from the gulf 
Of death, shall burst, and make its high appeal 
Sound unto earth and heaven ! Ay, let the land. 
Whose sons, through centuries of wo, have striven. 
And perished by her temples, sink awhile. 
Borne down jn conflict! — But immortal seed 
Deep, by heroic suffering, hath been sown 
On all her ancient hills ; and generous hope 
Knows that the soil, in its good time, shall yet 
Bring forth a glorious harvest! — Earth receives 
Not one red drop, from faithful hearts, in vain. 
Elmina. Then it must be! — And ye will make 
those lives. 
Those young bright lives, an offering — to retard 
Our doom one day ! 

Hernandez. The mantle of that day 
May wrap the fate of Spain ! 

Elmina. What led me here 7 
Why did I turn to thee in my despair 1 • 

Love hath no ties upon thee ; what had I 
To hope from thee, thou tone and childless ffian! 
Go to thy silent home ! — there no young voice 
Shall bid thee welcome, no light footstep spring 
Forth at the sound of thine ! — What knows thy 
heart 1 
Hernandez. Woman! how darest thou taunt 
me with my woes "^ 
Thy children too shall perish, and I say 
It shall be well! — Why takest thou thought for 

them? 
Wearing thy heart, and wasting down thy life 
Unto its dregs, and making night thy time 
Of care yet more intense, and casting health, 
Unprized, to melt away, i' th' bitter cup 
Thouminglest for tiiyself ? — Why, what hath earth 
To pay thee back for this 1 — Shall they not live, 
(If the sword spare them now) to prove how soon 
All love may be forgotten 1 — Years of thought. 
Long faithful watchings, looks of tenderness, 
Thatchanged not, though to change be this world's 

law 1 
Shall they not flush thy cheeks with sham'e, whose 

blood 
Marks, e'en like branding iron 1 — to thy sick heart 
Make death a want, as sleep to weariness 1 
Doth not all hope end thus ? — or e'en at best, 
Will they not leave thee ^ — far from thee seek room 
For th' overflowings of their fiery souls, 
On life's wide ocean 1 — Give the bounding steed, 
Or the winged bark to youth, that his free course 



May be o'er hills and seas ; and weep thou not 
In thy forsaken home, for the bright world 
Lies all before him, and be sure he wastes 
No thought on thee ! 

Elmina. Not so ! it is not so ! 
Thou dost but torture me ! — My sons are kind, 
And brave, and gentle. 

Hernandez. Others too have worn 
The semblance of all good. Nay, stay thee yet j 
I will be cahn, and thou shalt learn how earth, 
The fruitful in all agonies, hath woes 
Which far outweigh thine own. 

Elmina. It may not be ! 
Whose grief is like a mother's for her sons "? 
Hernandez. My son lay stretched upon his bat- 
tle-bier. 
And there were hands wrung o'er him, which had 

caught 
Their hue from his young blood! 
Elmina. What tale is this 1 
Hernandez. Read you no records in this mien, 
of things 
Whose traces on man's aspect are not such 
As the breeze leaves on water 1 — Lofty birth, 
War, peril, power 1— Affliction's hand is strong, 
If it erase the haughty characters 
They grave so deep ! — I have not always been 
That which I am. The name I bore is not 

Of those which perisii ! — I was once a chief 

A warrior ! — nor as now, a lonely man ! 
I was a father ! 

Elmina. Then my heart can feell 
Thou wilt have pity ! 

Hernandez. Should I pity thee? 
Thy sons will perish gloriously — their blood 
Elmina. Their blood! my children's blood! — 
Thou speak'st as 'twere 
Of casting down a wine-cup, in themirth 
And wantonness of feasting ! — My fair boys ! 
— Man ! hast thou been a father 1 

Hernandez. Let them die ! 
Let them die now, thy children ! so thy heart 
Shall wear their beautiful image all undimmed, 
Within it, to the las't ! Nor shalt thou learn 
The bitter lesson, of what worthless dust 
Are framed the idols, whose false glory binds 
Earth's fetter on our souls !— Thou think'st it much 
To mourn the early dead ; but there are tears 
Heavy with deeper angu'sh ! We endow 
These whom we love, in our fond passionate blind- 
ness. 

With power upon our souls, too absolute 
To be a mortal's trust ! Within their hands 
We lay the flaming sword, whose stroke alone 
Can reach our hearts, and they are merciful, 
As they are strong, that wield it not to pierce us ! 
— Ay, fear them, fear the loved ! — Had I but wept 
O'er my son's grave, as o'er a babe's, where tears 



48 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



Are as spring dew-drops, glittering in the sun, 
And brightening the young verdure, /might still 
Have loved and trusted ! 

Elmina (disdainfully.) But he fell in war! 
And hath not glory medicine in her cup 
For the brief pangs of nature 1 

Hernandez. Glory ! — Peace, 
And listen ! — By my side the stri[)ling grew, 
Last of my line. 1 reared him to take joy 
r th' blaze of arms, as eagles train tlieir young 
To look upon the day-king !^His quick blood 
Ev'n to his boyish cheek would mantle up. 
When the heavens rang with trum[)ets, and his eye 
Flash with the spirit of a race whose deeds — 
But tliis availeth not ! — Yet he was brave. 
I've seen him clear himself a path in fight 
As lightning through a forest, and his plume 
Waved like a torch, above the battle-storm. 
The soldier's guide, when princely crests had sunk, 
And banners were struck down. — Around my steps 
Floated his fame, like music, and I lived 
But in the lofty sound. But when my heart 
In one frail ark had ventured all, wlicn most 
He seemed to stand between my soul and heaven, 
— Then came the thunder-stroke! 

Elmina. 'Tis ever thus ! 
And the unquiet and foreboding sense 
That thus 'twill ever be, doth link itself 
Darkly with all deep love I — He died 1 

Hernandez. Not so ! 
— Death ! Death ! — Why, earth should be a para- 
dise, 
To make that name so fearful ! — Had he died, 
With his young fame about him for a shroud, 
I had not learned the might of agony, 
To bring proud natures low ! — No ! he fell off — 
—Why do I tell tiiee this 1— What right hast thou 
To learn how passed the glory from my house? 
Yet listen ! — He forsook me ! — He, that was 
As my own soul, forsook me! — trampled o'er 
The ashes of his sires ! — Ay, leagued himself 
E'en with the infidel, the curse of Spain, 
And. for the dark eye of a Moorish maid. 
Abjured his faith, his God ! — Now, talk of death ! 

Elmina. Oh ! I can pity thee 

Hernandez. There's more to hear. 
I braced tiie corslet o'er my heart's deep wound, 
And cast my troubled spirit on the tide 
Of war and high events, whose stormy waves 
Might l)ear it up from sinking ; 

Elmina. And ye met 
No more'] 

Hernandez. Be still ! — We did ! — we met once 
more. 
God had his own high purpose to fulfil. 
Or thinkest thou that the sun in his bright heaven 
Had looked upon such things ? — We met once more. 
— That was an hour to leave its lightning-mark 
Seared upon brain and bosom ! — there had been 



Combat on Ebro's banks, and when the day 
Siink in red clouds, it faded from a field 
Still held by Moorish lances. Night closed round, 
A night of sultry darkness, in the shadow 
Of whose broad wing, ev'n unto death I strove 
Long with a turbaned champipn ; but my sword 
Was heavy with God's vengeance — and prevailed. 
He fell — my heart exulted — and I stood 
In gloomy triumpli o'er him — Nature gave 
No sign of horror, for 'twas Heaven's decree ! 
He strove to s])eak — but 1 had done the work 
Of wrath too well — yet in his last deep moan 
A dreadl'ul something of familiar sound 
Came o'er my shuddering sense. — The moon look- 
ed forth, 
And I beheld — speak not! — 'twas he — my son! 
My boy lay dying there! He raised one glance, 
And knew me — for he sought with feeble hand 
To cover his glazed eyes. A darker veil 
Sank o'er tliem soon. — I will not have thy look 
Fixed on me thus! — Away! 

Elmina. Thou hast seen this, 
Thou hast done tliis — and yet thou livest 7 

Hernandez . I live ! 
And knowest thou wherefore"? — On my soul there 

fell 
A ho/ror of great darkness, which shut out 
All earth, and heaven, and hope. I cast away 
The spear and helm, and made the cloister's shade 
Tiie home of my despair. But a deep voice 
Came to me through the gloom, and sent its tones 
Far through my bosom's depths. And 1 awoke, 
Ay, as the mountain cedar doth shake oflf 
Its weight of wintry snow, e'en so I shook 
Despondence from my soul, and knevv myself 
Sealed by that blood wherewith my hands were 

dyed, 
And set apart, and fearfully marked out 
Unto a mighty task ! — To rouse the soul 
Of Spain, as from the dead ; and to lift up 
The cross, her sign of victory, on the hills. 
Gathering her sons to battle! — And my voice 
Must be as freedom's trumpet on the winds. 
From Roncesvalles to the blue sea-waves 
Where Calpe looks on Afric; till the land 
Have filled her cup of vengeance ! — Ask me now 
To yield the Christian city, that its fanes 
May rear the minaret in the face of Heaven! 
— But death shall have a bloodier vintage-feast 
Ere that day come ! 

Elmina. I ask thee this no more. 
For I am hopeless now. — But yet one boon — 
Hear me, by all thy woes! — Thy voice hath pow- 
er 
Through the wide city — ^here I can not rest : 
Aid me to pass the gates ! 

Hernandez. And wherefore 1 

Elmina. Thou, 
That wert a father, and art now — alone! 



THE SIEGE OF VALENCIA. 



49 



Canst thou ask ' wherefore ?' — Ask the wretcli 

whose sands 
Have not an hour to run, whose failing Hrnbs 
Have but one earthly journey to perform, 
Why, on his pathway to the place of death, 
Ay, when the very axe is ghstening cold 
Upon his dizzy sight, his pale, parched lip 
Implores a cup of waterl — Wliy, the stroke 
Which trembles o'er him in itself shall bring 
Oblivion of all wants, yet who deiiios 
Nature's last prayer'? — I tell thee that the thirst 
Which burns my spirit up is agony 
To be endured no more! — And I must look 
Upon my children's faces, I must hear 
Their voices, ere they perisli I — But hath Heaven 
Decreed that they must perish 1 — Wiio shall say 
If in yon Moslem cam[> there beats no heart 
Which prayers and tears may melt? 

Hernandez. There! — witli the Moor! 
Let him fill up the measure of his guilt! 
— 'Tis madness all ! — How wouldst thou pass th' 

array 
Of armed foesl 

Elmina. Oh! frfee doth sorrow pass. 
Free and unquestioned, through a suffering 
world 1(2) 

Hernandez. This must not be. Enough of wo 
is laid 
E'en now, upon thy lord's heroic soul. 
For man to bear, unsinkiiig. Press thou not 
Too heavily th' o'erburthened heart. — Away! 
Bow down the knee, and send thy prayers for 

strength 
Up to Heaven's gate. — Farewell ! 

[Exit Hernandez. 

"Elmina. Are all men thus'? 
—Why, wer't not better they should fall e'en now 
Than live to shut their hearts, in haughty scorn. 
Against the sufferer's pleadings? — But no, no! 
Who can be like tlds man, that slew his son, 
Yet wears his life still proudly, and a soul 
Untamed upon his brow? 
{After apav.sc.) There's one, whose arms 
Have borne my children in their infancy. 
And on whose knees they sported, and whose hand 
Hath led them oft — a vassal of their sire's; 
And I will seek him : he may lend me aid, 
•When all beside pass on. 

DIRGE HfcARD WITllOUT. 

Thou to thy rest art gone. 
High heart! and what are we. 
While o'er our heads the storm sweeps on, 
That we should mourn for thee 1 

Free grave and peaceful bier 
To the buried son of Spain ! 
To those that live, the lance and spear, 
And well if not the chain I 



Be theirs to weep the dead 
As they sit beneath their vines. 
Whose flowery land hath borne no tread 
Of spoilers o'er its shrines! 

Thou hast thrown off" the load 
Which we must yet sustain. 
And pour our blood where thine hath flowed, 
Too blest If not in vain ! 

We give thee holy rite. 
Slow knell, and chaunted strain! 
— For those tliat fall to-morrow night, 
May be left no funeral-train, 

Again, when trumpets wake, 
We must brace our armour on; 
But a dee|)er note thy sleep must break — 
— Thou to thy rest art gone! 

Happier in this than all. 
That, now tiiy race is run, 
Up.-)n thy name no stain may fall. 
Thy work hath well beeiidone. 

Elmina. " Thy work hath well been done !" — 
so thou mayst rest! 
— There is a solemn lesson in those words — 
But now I may not pause. 

. [E.rit Elmina. 

SCENE — A STREET IN THE CITY, 
HERNANDEZ, GONZALEZ. 
Hernandez. Would they not hearl 
Gonzalez. Tliey heard, as one that stands 
By tiie cold grave which hath been newly closed 
O'er his last frien<! doth hear some passer-by. 
Bid him bo comtipted ! — Their hearts have died 
Within tliem!— We must perish, not as those 
That fall when battle's voice doth shake the hills, 
And peal through Heaven's great arch, but si- 
lently. 
And with a wasting of the spirit down, 
A quenching, day by day, of some bright spark 
Wiiicli lit us on our toils! — Reproach me pot; 
My soul is darkened with a heavy cloud— 
— Yet fear not I shall yield ! 

Hernandez. Breathe not the word. 
Save in proud scorn ! — Each bitter day, o'erpassed 
By slow endurance, is a triumph won 
For S[)ain's red cross. And be of trusting heart! 
A few brief hours, and those that turned away 
In cold despondence, slirinking from your voice. 
May crowd around their leader, and demand 
To be arrayed for battle. We must watch 
Fertile swift impulso, and await its time. 
As the bark waits the ocean's. You have chosen 
To kindle up their souls, an hour, perchance, 
When they were weary; They had cast aside 
Their arms to slumber ; or a knell, just then 
With its deep hollow tone, had made the blood 



60 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



Creep shuddering through their veins ; or they had 

caught 
A gliiinjse of some new meteor, and shaped forth 
Strange omens from its blaze. 
Gonzalez. Alas! the cause 
Lies deeper in their misery!—! have seen, 
In my night's course through this beleaguered city 
Things, whose remembrance dotli not pass away 
As vapours from the mountains.— There were 

some. 
That sat beside their dead, with eyes, wherein 
Grief had ta'en place of sight, and shut out all 
But its own ghastly object. To my voice 
Some answered with a fierce and bitter laugh. 
As men whose agonies were made to pass 
The bounds of sufferance, by some reckless word, 
Dropt from the light of spirit.— Others lay— 
—Why should I tell thee, father! how despair 
Can bring the lofty brow of manhood down 
Unto the very dust7— And yet for this, 
Fear not that I embrace my doom — Oh God! 
That 'twere my doom alone!— with Icssof lixed 
And solenm fortitude. — Lead on, prepare 
The holiest rites of faith, that 1 by them 
Once more may consecrate my sword, my life, 
—But what are these?— Who hath not dearer 

lives 
Twined with his ownl — T shall he lonely soon — 
Childless 1 — Heaven wills it so. Let lis begone. 
Percliance before the slirine my heart may beat 
With a less troubled motion. 

[^Exeunt Gonzalez and Hernandez. 

SCENE — A TENT IN THE MOORISH CAMP. 



ABDULLAH, ALPHONSO" CARLOS. 

Abdullah. These are bold wofts: but hast thou 
looked on death, 
Fair stripling 1— On thy cheek and sunny brow 
Scarce fifteen summers of their laughing course 
Have left light traces. If thy shaft hath pierced 
The ibex of the mountains, if thy step 
Hath climbed some eagle's nest, and thou hast 

made 
His nest thy spoil, 'tis much !— And fear'st thou 

not 
The leader of the mighty *? 

Alphonso. I have been 
Reared amongst fearless men, and 'midst the rocks 
And the wild hills, whereon my fiithers fought 
And won their battles. There are glorious tales 
Told of their deeds, and I have I'earned them all. 
How should I fear thee. Moor ? 
Abdullah. So, thou hast seen 
Fields, where the combat's roar hath died away 
Into the whispering breeze, and where wild flow- 
ers 
Bloom o'er forgotten graves ! — But knowest thou 

AUght 



Of those, where sword from crossing sword strikes 

fire, 
And leaders are borne down, and rushing steeds 
Trample the lile from out the mighty hearts 
That ruled the storm so latel — Speak not of death, 
Till thou hast looked on such. 

Alphonso. I was not born 
A shepherd's son, to dwell with pipe and crook, 
And peasant-men, amidst the lowly vales; 
Instead of ringing clarions, and bright spears, 
And crested knights ! — I am of princely race, 
And, if my father would have heard my suit, 
I tell thee, infidel ! that long ere now, 
I should have seen how lances meet; and swords 
Do the field's work. 

Abdullah. Boy! know'st thou there are sights 
A thousand times more fearfuH — Men may die 
Full proudly, when tlie skies and mountains ring 
To battle-horn and tecbir.* — But not all 
So pass away in glory. There are tliose, 
'Midst the dead silence of |)ale nmltitudes. 
Led forth in fetters — dost thou mark' me, boy 1 
To take their last look of th' all gladdening sun, 
And bow, perchance, the stately head of youth, 

U nto the death of shame ! — Hadst thou seen this 

Alphonso {to Carlos). Sweet brother, God is with 
us — fear thou not ! 
We have had heroes for our sires — this man 
Should not behold us tremble. 
Abdullah. There are means 
To tame the leftiest natures. Yet again, 
I ask thee, wilt thou, from beneath the walls. 
Sue to thy sire for life ; or vvouldst thou die, 
With this, thy brother 1 

Alphonso. Moslem! on the hills, 
Around my father's castle, I have heard 
The mountain-peasants, as they dressed the vines, 
Or drove the goats, by rock and torrent, home, 
Singing their ancient songs ; and these were all 
Of the Cid Campeador; and how his sword 
Tizona(3) cleared its way through turbaned hosts, 
And captured Afric's kings, and how he won 
Valencia from the Moor.(4) — I will not shame 
The blood we draw from him ! 

A Moorish Soldier enters. 
Soldier. Valencia's lord , 

Sends messengers, my chief. 

Abdullah. Conduct them hither. 

[ The Soldier goes out, and re-enters with El- 
mina, disguised, and an Attendant. 
Carlos {springing forward to the Attendant). 
Oh ! take me hence, Diego ! take me hence 
With thee, that I may see my mother's face 
At morning, when I wake. Here dark-browed men 
Frown strangely, with their cruel eyes, upon us. 
Take me with thee, for thou art good and kind, 
And well I know, thou lov'st me, my Diego! 



Tecbir, the war-cry of thi Moors and Arabs. 



THE SIEGE OF VALENCIA. 



51 



Abdullah. Peace, boy! — What tidings, Chris 
t.ian, from thy lordl 
Is he grown humbler, doth he set the lives 
Of tliese fair nurshngs at a city's worth? 

Alphonso {rushing forward impatiently). Say 
not, he doth ! — Yet wherefore art thou here? 
If it be so — I could weep burning tears 
For very sihaine! — If this can be, return ! 
Tell him, of all his wealth, his hattle-sijoiis, 
I will but ask a war-horse and a sword. 
And that besi<le liim in tlie mount;iin-chase, 
And in his halls and at his st 'tcly feasts. 
My place shall be no morel — hut no! — I wrong, 
I wrong my father ' — Moor I believe it not ! 
He is a cliamition of the cross and Spain, 
Sprung from the Cid ; — and I too, I can die 
As a warrior's iiigli-l>orn cliild ! 

Elmina. Alas! alas' 
And wouldst thou die, tluis early die, fair boy'? 
What hath life done to thee, that thou shouldst cast 
Its flower away, in very scorn of heart, 
Ere yet the bli^xht be coine 1 

Alphonso. That voice doth sound 

Abdullah. Stranger, wlio art thou 1 — tliis is 

mockery! speak ! 
Elmina (tin-owing off a mantle and helmet, and 
embracing her sons). My !)oys! whom 1 have 
reared through many hours 
Of silent joys and sorrows, and deep thoughts 
Untold and unimagined; h't me die 
With you, now I have held you to my heart. 
And seen once more the faces, in whose light 
My soul hath lived for years ! 

Carlos. Sweet mother! now 
Thou shalt not h^ave us more. 
Abdullah. Enough of this ! 
Woman! what seck'st thou here ! — How hast thou 

dared 
To front the mighty thus amidst his hosts 1 
Elmina. Think'st thou there dwells no courace 
but in breasts | 

That set their mail against the ringing spears, I 
When helmets are struck down? — Thou little i 
know'st I 

Of nature's marvels! — Chief! my heart is nerved 
To make its way through things which warrior- 
men, 
— Ay, they that master death by fkld or flood. 
Would look on, ere they braved ! — I have no 

thought. 
No sense of fear ! — Thou 'rt mighty ! but a soul 
Wound up like mirrc is yiightier, in the power 
Of that one feeling, poured through all its depth3, 
Than monarchs with their hosts ! — Am I not come 
To die with these, my children ? 

Abdullah. Doth thy faith 
Bid thee do this, fond Christian? — Hast thou not 
The means to save them? 
Elmina. I have prayers, and tears, 



And agonies! — and he — my God — the God 
Whose hand, or soon or late, doth find its hour 
To bow the crested he.td — hath made these things 
Most powerful in a world wluirc all must learn 
That one deep language, by the storm called forth 
From the bruised reeds of earth ! — For thee, per- 
chance, 
Aflliction's chastening lesson hatli not yet 
Been laid upon my heart, and thou may'st love 
To see the creatures, by its might brought low, 
Humbled before tiiee. 

[She throws herself at his feet. ^ 
Conqueror ! I can kneel ! 
1, that drew iurth from princes, bow myself 
E'en to thy feet! Call in thy ciiiefs, thy slavey 
li'this will swell tliy trjuinph, to behold 
The blood of kings, of heroes, thus abased! 
Do this, but spare my sons! 
Alphonso {attempting to raise her.) Thou 
shouldst not kneel 
Unto this infidel! — Rise, rise, my mother'. 
riiis sight doth shame our house! 

Abdullah. Thou daring boy! 
'['hey that in arms have taught thy father's land 
How chains are worn, shall school that haughty 

mien 
Unto another language. 

Elmina. Peace, my son ! 
Have pity on my heart !— Oh, pardon. Chief! 
He is of noble blood' — Hear, hear me yet! 
Are there no lives through which the shafts of 

Heaven 
May reach your soul? — He that loves aught on 

earth. 
Dares far too much, if he be merciless! 
Is it for those, whose frail mortality 
Must one day strive alone with God and death 
To shut their souls against th' appealing voice 
Of nature, in her anguish? — Warrior! Man! 
To you too, ay, and hajdy with your hosts, 
By thousands and ten thousands marshalled round, 
And your strong armour on, shall come that stroke 
Which the lance wards not! — Where shall your 

high heart 
Find refuge then, if in the day of might 
Wo hath lain prostrate, bleeding at your feet. 
And you have pitied not? 

Abdullah. These are vain words. 
Elmina. Have you no children? — Fear you 
not to bring 
The lightning on their heads? — In your own land 
Doth no fond mother, from the tents, beneath 
Your native palms, look o'er the deserts out. 
To greet your homeward stej)? — You have not yet 
Forgot so utterly her patient love — 
— For is not woman's, in all climes, the same?— 
That you should scorn my prayer ! — Oh Heaven I 

his eye 
Doth wear no mercy I 



52 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



Abdullah. Then it mocks you not. 
I have swept o'er the mountains of your land, 
Leaving my traces, as the visitings 
Of storms, upon them! — Shall I now he stayed! 
Know, unto me it were as liglit a thing, 
In this, my course, to quench your children's lives. 
As, journeying through a forest, to break oif 
The young wild branches that obstruct the way 
With tiieir green sprays and leaves. 

Elmina. Are there such hearts 
Amongst thy works, O God^ 
J Abdullah. Kneel not to me. 
Kneel to your lord 1 on his resolves doth hang 
His children's doom. He may be lightjy won 
Bya lew bursts of passionate tears and words. 

Elmina (rising indignantly.) Speak not of 
noble men! — he bears a soul 
Stronger than love or death. 

Alphonso {with exultation.') I knew 'twas thus! 
He could not fail ! 

Elmina. There is no mercy, none, 
On this cold earth! — To strive with such a world, 
Hearts should be void of love! — We will go hence, 
My children! we are summoned. Lay your heads. 
In their young radiant beauty, once again 
To rest upon this bosom. He that dwells 
Beyond the clouds which press us darkly round, 
Will yet have pity, and before his face 
We three will stand together! Moslem! nowr 
Let the stroke fall at once! 

Abdullah. 'Tis thme own will. 
These might e'en yet be spared. 

Elmina. Thou wilt not spare! 
And he beneath whose eye their childhood grevp, 
And in whose paths they sported, and whose ear 
From their first lisping accents caught the sound 
Of that word — Father — once a name of love — 
Is Men shall call him steadfast. 

Abdullah. Hath the blast 
Of sudden trumpets ne'er at dead of night, 
When the land's watchers feared no hostile step. 
Startled the slumberers from their dreamy world, 
In cities, whose heroic lords have been 
Steadfast as thine'? 

Elmina. There's meaning in thine eye, 
More than thy words. 

Abdullah (^pointing to the city.) Look to yon 
towers and walls ! 
Think you no hearts within their limits pine, 
Weary of hopeless warfare, and prepared 
To burst the feeble links which bind them still 
Unto endurance'? 

Elmina. Thou hast said too well. 
But what of IMS'? 

Abdullah. Then there are those, to whom 
The Prophet's armies not as foes would pass 
Yon gates, but as deliverers. Might they not 
In some still hour, when weariness takes rest, 
iBe won to welcome us 1 — Your children's steps 



May yet bound lightly through their father's halls! 

Alphonso {indignantly.) Thou treacherous 
Moor ! 

Elmina. Let me not thus be tried 
Beyond all strength, oh Heaven! 

Abdullah: Now, 'tis for thee, 
Thou Christian mother!, on thy sons to pass 
The sentence — lile or death! — the price is set 
On their young blood, and rests within thy hands. 

Alphonso. Mother! thou treniblest ! 

Abdullah. Hath thy heart resolved 1 

Elmina (covering her face with her hands.) 
My boy's proud eye is on me, and tlie things 
Which rush in stormy darkness, through my soul, 
Shrink from his glance. 1 cannot answer here. 

Abdullah. Come forth. We'll commune else- 
where. 

Carlos (to his mother,) Wilt thou go? 
Oh! let me follow thee! 

Elmina A'Jine own fair child ! 
— Now that thine eyes have poured once more on 

mine 
The light of their young smile, and thy sweet voice 
Hath sent its gentle music through my soul 
And I have felt the twining of thine arms — 
— How shall I leave thee 1 

Abdullah. Leave him, as 'twere but 
For a brief slumber, to behold his face 
At morning, with the sun's. 

Alphonso. Thou hast no look 
For me, my mother ! 

Elmina Oh ! that I should live 
To say, I dare not look on thee ! — Farewell, 
My first born, fare thee well! 

Alphonso. Yet, yet beware ! 
It were a grief more heavy on thy soul, 
That I should blush for thee, than o'er my grave 
That thou shouldst proudly weep ! 

Abdidlah. Away! we trifle jhere. The night 
wanes fast. 
Come forth! 

Elmina. One more embrace 1 My sons, fare- 
well! 

[Exeunt Abdullah with Elmina and her 
Attendant. 

Alphonso. Hear me yet once, my mother ! 
Art thou gonel 
But one word more ! 

[He rushes out, followed by Carlos. 

SCENE— THE GARDEN OF A PALACE IN VALENCIA. 
XDIENA, THERESA. 
Theresa. Stay yet awhile. A purer air doth 
rove 
Here through the myrtles whispering, and the 

limes. 
And shaking sweetness from the orange boughs 
Than waits you in the city. 
Ximena. There are those 



THE SIEGE OF VALENCIA. 



53 



In their last need, and on their bed of death, 
At which no hand doth minister but mine. 
That wait me in the city. Let us hence. 

Theresa. You have been wont to love the 

music made 
By founts, and rustling foliage, and soil winds, 
Breathing of citron-groves. And will you turn 
From these to scenes of death? 

Ximena. To me the voice 
Of summer, whispering through young flowers 

and leaves. 
Now speaks too deep a language! and of all 
Its dreamy and mysterious melodies. 
The breathing soul is sadness! — 1 have felt 
That summons through my s()irit, alter vvliich 
The hues of earth are changed, and all her sounds 
Seem fraught with secret warnnigs. — There is 

cause 
That I should bend my footsteps to the scenes 
Where Death is busy, taming warrior-hearts. 
And pouring winter through the fiery blood. 
And fettering the strong arm ! — For now no sigh 
In the dull air, nor floating cloud in heaven, 
No, not the lightest murmur of a leaf, 
But of his angel's silent coming bears 
Some token to my soul. — But nought of this 
Unto my mother! — These are awful hours! 
And on their heavy steps, afilictions crowd 
With such dark pressure, there is left no room 
For one grief more. 

Theresa. Sweet lady, talk not thus ! 
Your eye this morn doth wear a calmer light, 
There's more of hfe in its clear tremulous ray 
Than I have marked of late. Nay, go not yet ; 
Rest by this fountain, where the laurels dip 
Their glossy leaves. A fresher gale doth spring 
From the transparent waters, dashing round 
Their silvery spray, with a sweet voice of coolness, 
O'er the pale glistening marble. 'Twill call up 
Faint bloom, if but a moment's, to your cheek. 
Rest here, ere you go forth, and I will sing 
The melody you love. 

THERESA SINGS. 

Why is the Spanish maiden's grave 
So far from her own bright land 1 

The sunny flowers that o'er it wave 
Were sown by no kindred hand. 

•Tis not the orange-bough that sends 

Its breath on the sultry air, 
'Tis not the myrtle-stem that bends 

To the breeze of evening there ! 

But the Rose of Sharon's eastern bloom 

By the silent dwelling fades. 
And none but strangers pass the tomb 

Which the Palm of Judah shades. 

The lowly Cross, with flowers o'ergrown, 
Marks well that place of rest ; 



But who hath graved, on its mossy stone, 
A sword, a helm, a crest? 

These are the trophies of a chief, 

A lord of the axe and spear ! 
— Some blossom plucked, some faded leaf, 

Should grace a maiden's bier I 

Scorn not her tomb — deny not her 

The honours of the braje ! 
O'er that forsaken sepulchre. 

Banner and plume might wave. 

She bound the steel, in battle tried, 

Her fearless heart above, 
And stood with brave men, side by side, 

In tlie strength and fiiith of love I 

That stn-ngth i)revailed — that faith was blessed! 

True was tiie javelin thrown. 
Yet pierced it not her warrior's breast. 

She met it with her own ! 

And nobly won, where heroes fell 

In arms for the holy shrine, 
A death which saved what she loved so well, 

And a grave in Palestine. 

Then let the Rose of Sharon spread 

Its breast to the glowing air. 
And the Palm of Judah lift its head, 

Green and immortal there ! 

And let yon gray stone, undefaced, 

With its trophy mark the scene. 
Telling the pilgrim of the waste, 

Where Love and death have been. 

Ximena. Those notes were wont to make my 
heart beat quick. 
As at a voice of victory ; but to-day 
The spirit of the song is changed, and seems 
All mournful. Oh ! that ere my early grave 
Shuts out the sunbeam, I might hear one peal 
Of the Castilian trumpet, ringing forth 
Beneath my father's banner ! — In that sound 
Were life to you, sweet brothers! — But for me — 
Come on — our tasks await us. They who know 
Their hours are numbered out, have little time 
To give the vague aiid slumberous languor way. 
Which doth steal o'er them in the breath of flowers, 
And whisper of soft winds. 

ELMINA enters hurriedly. 
Elmina. This air will calm my spirit, ere yet I 
meet 
His eye, which must be met. — Thou here, Ximena ! 
[She starts back on seeing Ximena. 
Ximena. Alas ! my mother ! In that hurrying 
step 
And troubled glance I read — 
Elmina (wildly.) Thou read'at it not! 



54 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



Why, who would live, if unto mortal eye 
The things lay gliirinir, wliich within our hearts 
We treasure up for God's 1 — Thou read'st it not! 
I say, thou canat not ! — There's not one on earth 
Shall know the thoughts, which for themselves 

have made 
And kept dark places in the very breast 
Whereon he hath laid his slumber, till the hour 
When the graves open ' 

Ximena. Mother ! Vliat is this 1 
Alas ! your eye is wandering, and your cheek 
Flushed, as with fever ! To your woes the night 
Hath brought no rest. 

Elmina. Rest! — who sliould rest? — not he 
That holils one earthly blessing to his heart 
Nearer than hfe ! — No! if tliis world have aught 
Of bright or precious, let not him who calls 
Such things his own, take rest ! — Dark spirits keep 

watch. 
And they to whom fair honour, chivalrous fame 
Were as heaven's air, the vital element 
Wherein they breathed, may wake, and find their 

souls 
Made marks for human scorn ! — Will they bear on 
With life struck down, and thus disrol)eil of all 
Its glorious drapery? — Who shall tell us this? 
— Will he so bear it? 

Ximena. Mother! let us kneel, 
And blend our hearts in prayer ! — What else is 

lefl 
To mortals when the dark hour's might is on 

them? 
— Leave us, Theresa. — Grief like this doth find 
Its balm in solitude. [Exit Theresa. 

My mother ! peace 

Is heaven's benignant answer to the cry 
Of wounded spirits. Wilt thou kneel with me? 
Elmina. Away ! 'tis but for souls unstained to 
wear 
Heaven's tranquil image on their depths. — The 

stream 
Of my dark thoughts, all broken by the storm. 
Reflects but clouds and lightnings I — Didst thou 

speak 
Of peace 1 — 'tis fled from earth ! — but there is joy ! 
Wild, troubled joy ! — And who shall know, my 

child ! 
It is not happiness ? — Why, our own hearts 
Will keep the secret close! — Joy, joy ! if but 
To leave this desolate city, with its dull 
Slow knells and dirges, and to breathe again 
Th' untainted mountain-air! — But hush! the 

trees, 
The flowers, the waters, must hear nought of 

this ! 

They are full of voices, and will whisper things 

— We'll speak of it no more. 

Ximena. Oh ! pitying Heaven ! 
This grief doth shake her reason ! 



I Elmina (^starting). Hark ! a step ! 
'Tis — 'tis thy father's — come away — not new- 
He must not see us now ! 

Ximena. Why should this be? 

GONZALEZ enters, and detains ELMINA. 

Gonzalez. Elmina, dost thou shun me? — Have 
we not, 
E'en from the hopeful and the sunny time 
When youtli was as a glory round our brows, 
Held on through life together? — And is this. 
When eve is gathering round us, with the gloom 
Of stormy clouds, a time to part our steps 
Upon the darkening wild ? 

Elmina (roldlij). There needs not this. 
Why shouklst thou think I shunned thee? 

Gonzalez. Should the love 
That shone o'l-r many years, th' unfading love, 
Whose only change hath been from gladdening 

smiles 
To mingle sorrows and sustaining strength, 
Thus lightly be forgotten ? 

Elmina. Speak'st thou thus? 
— I have knelt before thee with that very plea, 
When it availed me not?— But there are things 
Whose very breathings on the soul erase 
All record of past love, save the chill sense, 
Th' unquiet memory of its wasted faith. 
And vain devotedness! — Ay! they that fix 
Affection's perfect trust on aught of earth, 
Have many a dream to start from ! 

Gonzalez. This is but 
The wildness and the bitterness of grief. 
Ere yet th' unsettled heart hath closed its long 
Impatient conflicts with a mightier power. 
Which makes all conflict vain. 

Hark ! was there not 

A sound of distant trumpets, far beyond 
The Moorish tents, and of another tone 
Than th' Afric horn, Ximena ? 

Ximena. Oh, my father ! 
I know that horn too well. — 'Tis but the winc^ 
Which, with a sudden rising, bears its deep 
And savage war-note from us, wafting it 
O'er the far hills. 

Gonzalez. Alas ! this wo must be ! 
I do but shake my spirit from its height 
So startling it with hope ! — But the dread hour 
Shall be met bravely still. I can keep down 
Yet for a little while-^and Heaven will ask 
No more — the passionate workings of my heart; 
— And thine — Elmina ? 

Elmina. 'Tis — I am prepared. 
I have prepared for all. 

Gonzalez. Oh, well I knew 
Thou wouldst not fail me ! — Not in vain my soul, 
Upon thy faith and courage, hath built up 
Unshaken trust. 

Elmina. {wildly) Away! — thou know'st m« 
not! 



THE SIEGE OF VALENCIA. 



55 



Man (lares too far, his rashness would invest 
This our inortahty vvitii an attribute 
Too hii|h an J uwful. boastinjf tliat he knqws 
One human heart! 

Gonzalez. These are wild words, but yet 
I will not doubt thee ! — Hast thou not been found 
, Noble in all things, pouring thy soul's liirht 
Undinined o'er every trial? — And, as our fates, 
So must our names be, undivided! — Thine, 
I' th' record of a vyarrior's life, shall find 
Its place of stainless honour. — By his side 

Eltnina. May this be borne 1 — How much of 
agony 
Hath the heart room for 1 — Speak to me in wrath — 
I can endure it! — But no gentle words! 
No words of love ! no praise ! — Thy sword might 

slay, 
And be more merciful ! 

Gonzalez. Wherefore art thou thus? 
Ehnina, my beloved' 

Elmina. No more of love! 
— Have I not said there's that witliin my heart, 
Whereon it falls as living fire would fall 
Upon an unclosed wound? 

Gonzalez. Nay, lift thine eyes 
That I may read tlieir meaning! 

Elmina. Never, more 
With a free soul — What have I said? — 'twas 

nought! 
Take thou no heed ! The words of wretchedness 
Admit not scrutiny. Wouldst thou mark the 

speech 
Of troubled dreams ? 

Gonzalez. I have seen thee in the hour 
Of thy deep spirit's joy, and when the breath 
Of grief hung chilling round thee; in all change. 
Bright health and drooping sickness ; hope and 

fear; 
Youth and decline ; but never 3'et, Elmina, 
Ne'er hath thine eye till now shrunk back per- 
turbed 
With shame or dread, from mine ! 

Elmina. Thy glance doth search 
A wounded h«art too deeply. 

Gonzalez. Hast thou there 
Aught to conceal 1 

Elmina. Who hath not? 

Gonzalez. Till this hour 
Thou never hadst ! — Yet hear me I — by the free 
And unattainted fame which wraps the dust 
Of thine heroic fathers 

Elmina. This to me! 
—Bring your inspiring war-notes, and your sounds 
Of festal music round a dying man ! 
Will his heart ecRo them'' — But if thy words 
Were spells, to call up, with each lofty tone. 
The grave's most awful spirits, they would stand 
Powerless, before my anguish ! 

Gonzalez. Then, by her, 



Who there looks on thee in the purity 

Of her devoted youth, and o'er whose name 

No blight must fall, and whose pale cheek must 

ne'er 
Burn with that deeper tinge, caught painfully 
From tlic quick feeling of dishonour. — Speak 
Unfold this mystery! — By thy sons 

Elmina. My sons! 
And canst thou name them? 

Gonzalez. Proudly! — Better far 
They died with all the promise of their youth, 
And the fair honour of their house upon them. 
Than that with manhood's high and passionate 

soul 
To fearful strength unfolded, they should live. 
Barred from the lists of crested chivalry, 
And pining, in the silence of a wo, 
Whicli from the heart siiuts daylight; — o'er the 

shame 
Of those vs'ho gave them birth! — But thou couldst 

ne'er 
Forget their lofty claims ! 

• Elmina {wildly.) 'Twas but for them! 
'Twas for them only! — Who shall dare arraign 
Madness of crime? — And he who made us, knows 
There are dark moments of all hearts and lives, 
Which bear down reason! 

Gonzalez. Thou, whom I have loved 
With such high trust, as o'er our nature threw 
A glory, scarce allowed.; — what hast thou done? 
Ximena, go thou hence ! 

Elmina. No, no! my child ! 
There's pity in thy look ! — All other eyes 
Are full of wrath and scorn ! — Oh! leave me not! 

Gonzalez. That I should live to see thee thus 
abased ! 
— Yet speak ? — What hast thou done ? 

Elmina. Look to the gate ! 
Thou'rt worn with toil — but take no rest to-night! 
The western gate! — Its watchers have been won — 
The Christian city hath been bought and soldi 
They will admit the Moor ! 

Gonzalez. They have been won! 
Brave men and tried so long ! — Whose work was 
this? 

Elmina. Think'st thou all hearts like thine? — 
Can mothers stand 
To see their children perish? 

Gonzalez. Then the guilt 
Was thine? 

Elmina. — Shall mortal dare to call it guilt ? 
I tell thee. Heaven, which made all holy things, 
Made nought more holy than the boundless love 
Which fills a mother's heart !-:-I say, 'tis wo 
Enough, with such an aching tenderness. 
To love aught earthly ! — and in vain ! in vain ! 
— We are pressed down too sorely ! 

Gonzalez (in a low desponding voice). Now 
• my life 



56 



MRS. HEMANS" WORKS. 



Is struck to worthless ashes ! — In my soul 

Suspicion hath ta'en root. The nobleness 

Henceforth is blotted from all human brows, 

And fearful power, a dark and troublous gift, 

Almost like prophecy, is poured upon me, 

To read the guilty secrets in each eye. 

That once looked briglit with truth ! 

— Why then I have gained 

What men call wisdom ! — A new sense, to which 

All tales that speak of high fidelity, 

And holy courage, and proud honour, tried, 

Searched, and found steadfast, even to martyrdom. 

Are food for mockery! — Why sliould 1 not cast 

From my tliinned locks the wearing helm at once. 

And in the heavy sickness of my soul 

Throw the sword down for ever? — Is there aught 

In all this world of gilded iiollowness, 

Now the briglit hues dropoff its loveliest things, 

Worth striving for again 1 

Ximena. Father! look up! 
Turn unto me, thy child ! 

Gonzalez. Thy face is fair ; 
And hath been unto me, in other days, 
As morning to the journeyer of the deep ; 
But now — 'tis too like hers! 

Elmina (falling at his feet.) Wo, shame and 
wo, 
Are on me in their might ! — forgive, forgive ! 

Gonzalez {starting up.) Doth the Moor deeni 
that / have part or share, 
Or counsel in this vileness 1 — Stay me not! 
Let go thy hold^^'tis powerless on me now — 
I linger here, while treason is at work ! 

[E.Tit Gonzalez. 

Elmina. Ximena, dost ihou scorn met 

Ximena. I have found 
In mine own heart too much of feebleness, 
Hid, beneath many foldings, from all eyes 
But His whom nought can blind; — to dare do 

aught 
But pity thee, dear mother ! 

Elmina. Blessings light 
On thy fair head, my gentle child, for this ! 
Thou kind and merciful ! — My soul is faint — 
Worn with long strife! — Is there aught else to do. 
Or suffer, ere we die 1 — Oh God ! my sons ! 
— I have betrayed them ! — All their innocent blood 
Is on my soul ! 

Xim.ena. How shall I comfort thee? 
— Oh ! hark ! what sounds come deepening on the 

wind, 
So full of solemn hope ! 

(A procession of Nuns passes across the Scene, 
bearing rtlics, and chanting.) 

CHANT. 

A sword is on the land ! 
He that bears down young tree and glorious 
flower, 



Death is gone forth, he walks the wind in power t 

— Where is the warrior's handl 
Our steps are in the shadows of the grave, 
Hear us, we perish ! Father, hear, and save ! 

If, in the days of song, 
The days of gladness, we have called on thee, 
When mirthful voices rang from sea to sea, 

And joyous hearts were strong ; 
Now, that alike the feeble and the brave 
Must cry, " We perish !" — Father ! hear, and 

save ! 

The days of song are fled! 
The winds came loaded, wafting dirge-notes by, 
But they that linger soon unmourned must die; 

— The <lead weep not the dead ! 
— Wilt thou forsake us 'midst the stormy wavel 
We sink, we perish! — Father, hear, and save! 

Helmet and lance are dust! 
Is not the strong man withered from our eyel 
The arm striick down that held our banners highl 

— Thine is our spirit's trust ! 
Look through the gathering shadows of the grave ! 
Do we not perish ! — Father, hear, and save ! 

HERNANDEZ enters. 
Elmina. Why comest thou, man of vengeance? 
— What have I 
To do with thee 1 — Am I not bowed enough 1 
Thou art no mourner's comforter ! 

Hernandez. Thy lord 
Hath sent me unto thee. Till this day's task 
Be closed, thou daughter of the feeble heart ! 
He bids thee seek him not, but lay thy woes 
Before Heaven's altar, and in penitence 
Make thy soul's peace with God. 

Elmina. Till this day's task 
Be closed! — there is strange triumph in thine 

eyes — 
Is it that I have fallen from that high place 
Whereon 1 stood in fame? — But I can feel 
A wild and bitter pride in thus being past 
The power of thy dark glance! — My spirit now 
Is wound about by one sole mighty* grief ; 
Thy scorn hath lost its sting. — Thou mayst re- 
proach — 
Hernandez. I come not to reproach thee. Hea- 
ven doth work 
By many agencies ; and in its hour 
There is no insect which the summer breeze 
From the green leaf shakes trembling, but may . 

serve 
Its deep unsearchable purposes, as well 
As the great ocean, or th' eternal fires, 
Pent in earth's caves! — Thou last but speeded 

that. 
Which, in th' infatuate blindness of thy heart 
Thou wouldst have trampled o'er all holy ties, 
But to avert one day! 



THE SIEGE OF VALENCIA. 



57 



Elmina. My senses fail — 
Thou saidst — Speak yet again ! — I could not catch 
The meaning of thy words. 

Hernandez. E'en now thy lord 
Hath sent our foes defiance. On the walls 
He stands in conference with the boastful Moor, 
And awful strength is with him. Through the 

blood 
Which this day must be poured in sacrifice 
Shall Spain be free. On all her ohve-hills 
Shall men set up the battle-sign of fire, 
And round its blaze, at midnight, keep the sense 
Of vengeance wakeful in each other's hearts 
E'en with thy children's tale! 

Ximena. Peace, father ! peace ! 
Behold alie sinks! — the storm hath done its work 
Upon the broken reed. Oh !*lend thine aid 
To bear her hence. [ T'hey lead her away. 

Scene — A Street in Valencia. Several Groups 
of Citizens and Soldiers, many of them lying 
on the Steps of a Church. Arvis scattered on 
the Ground around them. 

An Old Citizen. The air is sultry, as with 
thunder-clouds, 
I left my desolate home, that I might breathe 
More freely in heaven's face, but my heart feels 
With this hot gloom o'erburthened. I have now 
No sons to tend me. Which of you, kind friends. 
Will bring the old man water from the fount, 
To moisten his parched lip] 

[A citizen goes out. 

Second Citizen. This wasting siege. 
Good Father Lopez, hath gone hard with you! 
'Tis sad to hear no voices through the house, 
Once peopled with fair sons ! 

Third Citizen. Why, better thus. 
Than to be haunted with their famished cries, 
E'en in your very dreams ! 

Old Citizen. Heaven's will be done! 
These are dark times! I have not been alone 
In my affliction. 

Third Citizen (with bitterness.) Why, we 
have but this thought 
Left for our gloomy comfort! — And 'tis well! 
Ay, let the balance be awhile struck even 
Between the noble's palace and the hut. 
Where the worn peasant sickens ! — They that bear 
The humble dead unhonoured to their homes, 
Pass now i' th' streets no lordly bridal train, 
With its exulting music; and the wretch 
Who on the marble steps of some proud hall 
Flings himself down to die, in his last need 
And .agony of famine, doth behold 
No scornful guests, with their long purple robes,' 
To the banquet sweeping by. Why, this is just ! 
These are the days when pomp is made to feel 
Ite human mould ! 



Fourth Citizen. Heard you last night the sound 
Of Saint Jago's bell 1 — How sullenly 
From the great tower it pealed ! 

Fifth Citizen. Ay, and 'tis said 
No mortal hand was near when so it seemed 
To shake the midnight streets. 

Old Citizen. Too well I know 
The sound of coming fate ! — 'Tis ever thus 
When Death is on his way to make it night 
In the Cid's ancient house.(5) — OhUhere are things 
In this strange world of which we have all to learn 
When its dark bounds are passed. — Yon bell, un- 
touched, 
(Save by hands we see not) still doth speak — 
— When of that line some stately head is marked— 
With a wild iiollow peal, at dead of night, 
Rocking Valencia's towers. I have heard it oft, 
Nor known its warning false. 

Fourth Citizen. And will our chief 
Buy tliH price of his fair ciiiidren's blood 
A few more days of pining wretchedness 
For t!iis forsaken city? 

Old Citizen. Doubt it not ! 
— But with that ransom he may purchase still 
Deliverance for tlie land ! — And yet 'tis sad 
To think that such a race, with all its fame. 
Should pass away ! — For she, his daughter too, 
Moves upon earth as some bright thing whose time 
To sojourn there is short. 

Fifth Citizen. Then wo for Us 
When she is gone ! — Her voice — the Very sound 
Of her soft step was comfort, as she moved 
Through the still house of mourning ! — Who like 

her 
Shall give us hope again 1 

Old Citizen. Be still ! — she comes, 
And with a mien how changed ! — A hurrying step, 
And a flushed cheek ! — What may this bode 1 — 
Be still ! 

XIMENA entei-s, with Attendants carrying a Banner. 

Ximena. Men of Valencia ! in an hour like this, 
What do ye here 1 

A Citizen. We die ! 

Ximena. Brave men die now 
Girt for the toil, as travellers suddenly 
By the dark night o'ertaken on their way ! 
These days require such death I — It is too much 
Of luxury for our wild and angry times. 
To fold the mantle round us, and to sink 
From life, as flowers that shut up silently, 
When the sun's heat doth scorch them ! — Hear ye 
not? 

A Citizen. Lady ! what wouldst thou with us 7 

Ximena. Rise and arm ! 
E'en now the children of your chief are led 
Forth by the Moor to perish I — Shall this be, 
Shall the high sound of such a name be hushed, 
r th' land to which for ages it hath been 



58 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



A battle-word, as 'twere some passing note 
Of shepherd-music 1 — Must this work be done, 
And ye lie pining here, as men in whom 
The pulse which God hath made for noble thought 
Can so be thrilled no longer 1 

Citizen. 'Tis even so ! 
Sickness, and toil, and grief, have breathed upon us. 
Our hearts beat faint and low. 

Ximena. Are ye so poor 
Of soul, my countrymen ! that ye can draw 
Strength from no deeper source than that which 

sends 
The red blood mantling through the joyous veins. 
And gives the fleet step wings 1^— Why, how have 

age ^ 
And sensitive womanhood ere now endured, 
Through pangs of searching fire, in some proud 

cause. 
Blessing that agony 1 — Think ye the Power 
Which bore them nobly up, as if to teach 
The torturer where eternal Heaven had set 
Bounds to his sway, was earthy, of this earth. 
This dull mortality % — Nay, then look on me ! 
Death's touch hath marked me, and I stand amongst 

you. 
As one whose place, i' th' sunshine of your world, 
Shall soon be left to fill ! — I say, the breath 
Of th' incense, floating through yon fane, shall 

scarce 
Pass from your path before me ! But even now, 
I have that within me, kindling through the dust, 
Which fi'om all time hath made high deeds its voice, 
And token to the nations ! — Look on me ! 
Why hath Heaven poured forth courage, as a flame 
Wasting thewomanish heart, which must be stilled 
Yet sooner for its swift consuming brightness. 
If not to shame your doubt, and your despair. 
And your soul's torpor 1 — Yet, arise and arm ! 
It may not be too late. 

A Citizen. Why, what are we. 
To cope with hosts 1 — Thus faint, and worn, and 

few, 
O'ernumbered and forsaken, is't for as 
To stand against the mighty? 

Ximena. And for whom 
Hath He, who shakes the mighty with a breath 
From their high places, made the fearfulness, 
And ever-wakeful presence of his power. 
To the pale startled earth most manifest. 
But for the weak ? — Was 't for the helmed and 

crowned 
That suns were stayed at noonday 1 — Stormy seas 
As a rill parted 7 — ^Mailed archangels sent 
To wither up the strength of kings with death/? 
— I tell you, if these marvels have been done, 
'Twas for the wearied and th' oppressed of men, 
They needed such! — And generous faith hath 

power 
By her prevailing spirit, e'en yet to work 



Deliverances, whose tale shall live with those 
Of the great elder time ! — Be of good heart ! 
Who is forsaken? — He that gives the thought 
A place witliiii his breast! — 'Tis not for you. ~ 
— Know ye this banner? 

Citizens (murmuring to each other.^ Is she 
not inspired 1' 
Doth not heaven call us by her fervent voice ? 
Ximena. Knov*r ye this banner ? 
Citizens. 'Tis the Cid's. 
Ximena. The Cid's ! 
Who breathes that name but in th' exulting tone 
Which the heart rings to? — Why the very wind 
As it swells out the noble standard's fold 
Hath a triumphant sound ! — The Cid's ! — it 

moved 
Even as a sign of viclf)ry through the land 
From the free skies ne'er stooping to a foe ! 

Old Citizen. Can ye still pause, my brethren? 
—Oh ! that youth 
Through this worn frame were kindling once 

again ! 
Ximena. Ye linger still 1 — Upon this very air, 
He that was born in happy hour for Spain(6) 
Poured forth his conquering spirit! — 'Twajs the 

breeze 
From your own mountains which came down to 

wave 
This banner of his battles, as it drooped 
Above, the champion's death-bed. Nor even then 
Its tale of glory closed. — They made no moan 
O'er the dead hero, and no dirge was sung, (7) 
But the deep tambour a.nd the shrill horn of war 
Told when the mighty passed 1 — They wrapt him 

not 
With the pale shroud, but braced the warrior's 

form 
In war-array, and on his barbed steed, 
As for a triumph, reared him ; marching forth 
In the hushed midnight from Valencia's walls, 
Beleaguered then, as now. All silently 
The stately funeral moved : — but who was he 
That followed, charging on the tall white horse, 
And with the solemn starwlard, broad and pale, 
Waving in sheets of snow-light? — And the cross, 
The Moody cross, far-blazing from his shield, 
And the fierce meteor-sword? — They fled, they 

fled! 
The kings of Afric, with their countless hosts, 
Were dust in his red path ! — The scimetar 
Was shivered as a reed ! — for in that hour 
The warrior-saint that keeps the watch for Spain, 
Was armed betime.'? ! — And o'er that fiery field 
The Cid's high banner streamed all joyously. 
For still its lord was there I 

Citizens {rising tumultuously). Even unto 
death 
Again it shall be followed ! 
Ximena. Will he see 



THE SIEGE OF VALENCIA. 



59 



The noble stem hewn down, the beacon-hght 
Which his house for ages o'er the land 
Hath shone through cloud and storm, thus quench- 
ed at once 1 
Will he not aid his children in the hour 
Of this their uttermost peril ? — Awful power 
Is with the holy dead, and there are times 
When the tomb hath no chain they can not burst ! 
: — Is it a tiling forgotten, how he woke 
From its deep rest of old, remembering Spain 
In her great danger? — At the night's mid-watch 
How Leon started, when the sound was heard 
That shook her dark and hollow-echoing streets, 
As with the heavy tramp of steel-clad men, 
By thousands marching through! — For he had 

risen ! 
The Campeador was on his march again. 
And in his arms, and followed by his hosts 
Of shadowy spearmen ! — He had left the world 
From which we are dimly parted, and gone forth, 
And called his buried warriors from their sleep, 
Gathering them round him to deliver Spahi; 
For Afric was upon her ! — Morning broke — 
Day rushed through clouds of battle ; — but at eve 
Our God had triumphed, and the rescued land 
Sent up a shout of victory from the field. 
That rocked her ancient mountains. 

The Citizens. Arm! to arms! 
On to our chief ! — We have strength within us yet 
To die with our blood roused ! — Now, be the word, 
For the Cid's house ! 

[ They hegip. to arm themselves. 

Ximena. Ye know his battle-song 1 
The old rude. strain wherewith his ban4s went 

forth 
To strike down Paynim swords ! 

(^She sings) 

THE cid's battle SONG. 

The Moor is on his way! 
With the tambour-peal and the tecbir-shout, 
And the horn o'er the blue seas ringing out, 

He hath marshalled his dark array ! 

Shout through the vine-clad land ! 
That her sons on all their hills may hear. 
And sharpen the point of the red wolf-spear, 

And the sword for the brave man's hand I 
(^The Citizens join in' the song, while they 
continue arming themselves). 

Banners are in the field ! 
The ciiief must rise from his joyous board, 
And turn from the feast ere the wine be poured. 

And take up his father's shield ! 

The Moor is on his way ! 
Let the peasant leave his olive-ground. 
And the goats roam wild through the pine-woods 
round! 

— There is nobler work to-day! 



•Send forth the trumpet's call ! 
Till the bridegroom cast the goblet down. 
And the marriage-robe and the flowery crown, 

And arm in the banquet-hall ! 

And stay the funeral-train ! 
Bid the chanted mass be husljed awhile. 
And their bier laid down in the lioly aisle, 

And the mourners girt for Spain ! 

{They take up the banner, and follow Ximena 
out. Their voices are heard gradually 
dying away at a distance). 

Ere night, must swords be red ! 
It is not an hour for knells and tears. 
But for helmets braced, and serried spears! 

To-morrow for the dead ! 

The Cid is in array! 
His steed is barbed, his plume waves high, 
His banner is up in the sunny sky, 

Now, joy for the Cross to-day ! 

SCENE — THE WALLS OF THE CITY. THE PLAIN 
BENEATH, WITH THE MOORISH CAMp'aND ARMY. 

GONZALEZ, GARGUS, HERNANDEZ. 

{A wild Sound of Moorish Music heard from 
below). 

Hernandez. What notes are these in their deep 
mournfulness 
So strangely wild? 

Garcias. 'Tis the shrill melody 
Of the Moor's ancient death-song. Well I know 
The rude barbaric sound; but, till this hour, 
It seemed not fearful. Now, a shuddering chill 
Comes o'er me vvith its tones. — Lo ! from yon tent 
They lead the noble boys! • 

Hernandez. The young, and pure. 
And beautiful victims ! — 'Tis on things like these 
We cast our hearts in wild idolatry, 
Sowing the winds with hope ! — Yet this is well. 
Thus brightly crowned with life's most gorgeous 

flowers, 
And all unblemished, earth should offer up 
Her treasures unto Heaven ! 

Garcias (to Gonzalez). My chief, the Moor 
Hath led your ciiildren forth. 

Gonzalez (starting). Are my sons there 1 
I knew they could not perish ; for yon Heaven 
Would ne'er behold it I — Where is he that said 
I was no more a father 1 — They look changed 
Pallid and worn, as from a prison-house ! 
Oris't mine eye sees dimly? — But their steps 
Seem heavy, as vvith pain. — I hear the clank — 
Oh God! their limbs are fettered! 

Abdullah (coining forward beneath the wails) 
Christian! look 
Once more upon thy children. There is yet 



60 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



One moment for the trembling of the sword; 
Their doom is still with thee. 

Gonzalez. Why should this man 
So mock us with the semblance of our kind? 
— Moor! Moor! thou dost too daringly provoke, 
In thy bold cruelty, th' all-judging One, 
Who visits for such things ! — Hast thou no sense 
Of thy frail nature 1— 'Twill be taught thee yet, 
And darkly shall the anguish of my soul, 
Darkly and heavily, pour itself on thine, 
When thou shalt cry for mercy from the dust, 
And be denied ! 

AhduUah. Nay, is it not thyself, 
That hast no mercy and no love within thee 1 
These are thy sons, the nurslings of thy house ; 
Speak ! must they live or die 7 

Gonzalez (in violent emotion). Is it Heaven's 
will 
To try the dust it kindles for a day, 
With infinite agony ! — How have I drawn 
This chastening on my head !— They bloomed 

around me, 
And my heart grew too fearless in its joy, 
Glorying in their bright promise ! — If we fall, 
Is there no pardon for our feebleness 1 

(Hernandez, without speaking yholds up a Cross 
before him). 

Abdullah. Speak! 

Gonzalez {snatching the Cross, and lifting it 
up). Let the earth be shaken through its 
depths, 
But this must triumph ! 

Abdullah (coldly). Be it as thou wilt. 
— Unsheath the scimetar ! [To hi.s Guards. 

Garcias {to Gonzalez.) Away, my chief I 
This is your place no longer. There are things 
No human heart, though battle pfoof as yours, 
Unmaddened may sustain. 

Gonzalez. Be still ! I have now 
No place on earth but this ! 

Alphonso {from beneath.). Men\ give me way, 
That I may speak forth once before I die! 

Garcias. The princely boy !— How gallantly his 
brow 
Wears its high nature in the face of death! 

Alphonso. Father I 

Gonzalez. My son ! my son ! — mine eldest-born ! 

Alphonso. Stay but upon the ramparts !— Fear 
thou not — 
There is good courage in me ; oh ! my father! 
I will not shame thee ! — only let me fall 
Knowing thine eye looks proudly on thy child, 
So shall my heart have strength/ 

Gonzalez. Would, would to; God, 
That I might die for thee, my noble boy ! 
Alphonso, my fair son I 

Alphonso. Could I have lived, 
I might have been a warrior ! — Now, Farewell ! 
But look upon me still!— I will not blench 



When the keen sabre flashes — Mark me well! 
Mine eyelids shall not quiver as it falls, 
So thou wilt look upon me ! 

Garcias {to Gonzalez.) Nay, my lord! 
We must begone! — Thou canst not bear jt! 

Gonzalez. Peace! 
— Who hath told thee how much man's heart can 

bear ? 
— Lend me thine arm — my brain whirls fearfully— 
How thick the shades close round ! — my boy ! my 

boy! 
Where art thou in this gloom? 

Garcias. Let us go hence ! 
This is a dreadful moment ! 

Gonzalez. Hush ! — what saidst thou! 
Now let me look on him! — Dost thou see aught 
Through the dull mist which wraps us? 

Garcias. I behold — 
Oh! for a thousand Spaniards to rush dowm — 

Gonzalez.- Thou seest — My heart stands still 
to hear thee speak! 
— There 'seems a fearful hush upon the air, 
As 't were the dead of night ! 

Garcias. The hosts have closed 
Around the spot in stillness: Through the spears, 
Ranged thick and motionless, I see him not; 
-^But now — 

Gonzalez. He bade me keep mine eye upon him, 
And all is darkness round me! — Now? 

Garcias. A sword, 
A sword, springs upward, like a lightning burst, 
Through the dark serried mass! — Its cold blue 

glare 
Is waverjng to and fro— 'tis vanished — ^hark! 

Gonzalez. I heard it, yes! — I heard the dull 
dead sound 
That heavily broke the silence! — Didst thou 

speak 1 
— I lost thy words — come nearer! . 

Garcias. 'Twas — 'tis past! — 
The sword fell then! 

Hernandez {with exultation.) Flow forth thou 
noble blood ! 
Fount of Spain's ransom and deliverance, flow 
Unchecked and brightly forth ! — Thou kingly 

stream ! 
Blood of our heroes! blood of martyrdom! 
Which through so many warrior-hearts hast 

PQured 
The fiery currents, and hast made our hills 
Free, by thine own free offering !— Bathe the land, 
But there thou shalt not sink!— Our very air 
Shall take thy colouring, and our loaded skies 
O'er th' infidel hang dark and ominous. 
With battle-hues of thee!— And thy deep voice 
Rising above them to the judgment-seat 
Shall call a burst of gathered vengeance down 
To sweep th' oppressor from us ! — For thy wave 
Hath made his guilt run o'er ! 



THE SIEGE OF VALENCIA. 



61 



Gonzalez (endeavouring to rouse himself.) 'Tis 
all a dream ! 
There is not one — no hand on earth could harm 
That fair boy's graceful head! — Why look you 
thus 7 
Abdullah {pointing to Carlos.) Christian! e'en 

yet thou hast a son ! 
Gonzalez. E'en yet ! 

Carlos. My father ! take me from these fearful 
men! 
Wilt thou not save me, father 1 

Gonzalez (attempting to unsheath his sword.) 
Is the strength 
From mine arm shivered? — Garcias. follow me! 
Garcias. Whither, my chief? 
Gonzalez. Why, we can die as well 
On yonder plain, — ay, a spear's thrust will do 
The little that our misery doth require. 
Sooner than e'er this anguish ! Life is best 
Thrown from us in such moments. 

[ Voices heard at a distance. 
Hernandez. Hush ! what strain 
Floats on the wind ? 

Garcias. 'Tis the Cid's battle song! 
What marvel hath been wrought ? 

[ Voices approaching heard in chorus. 
The Moor is on his way ! 
With the tambour-peal and the tecbir-shout, 
And the horn o'er the blue seas ringing out, 
He hath marshalled his dark array ! 

XDIENA enters, followed by Citizens, with the Banner. 

Ximena. Is it too late? — My father, these are 
men 
Through life and death prepared to follow thee 
Beneath this banner! — Is their zeal too late? 
»— Oh ! there's a fearful history on thy brow ! 
What hast thou seen ? 

Garcias. It is not all too late. 

Ximena. My brothers! 

Hernandez. All is well. 

( To Garcias.) Hush ! wouldst thou chill 
That which hath sprung within them, as a flame 
From th' altar-embers mounts in sudden bright- 
ness? 
I say, 'tis not too late, ye men of Spain ! 
On to the rescue I 

Ximena. Bless me, oh my father ! 
And I will hence, to aid thee with my prayers. 
Sending my spirit with thee through the storm, 
Lit up by flashing swords ! 

Gonzalez (falling on. her neck.) Hath aught 
been spared 1 
Am I not all bereft ? — Thou'rt left me still ! 
Mine own, my loveliest one, thou'rt left me still! 
Farewell ! — thy father's blessing, and thy God's, 
Be with thee, my Ximena ! 

Ximena. Fare thee well ! 
If, ere thy steps turn homeward from the field, 
14 



The voice is hushed that still hath welcomed thee, 
Think of me in thy victory ! 

Hernandez. Peace ! no more t 
This is no time to melt our nature down 
To a soft stream of tears ! — Be of strong heart ! 
Give me the banner ! Swell the song again ! 

THE CITIZENS. 

Ere night must swords be red ! 
It is not an hour for knells and tears ! 
But for helmets braced and serried spears ! 

— To-morrow for the dead ! [Exeunt omne*. 

SCEXE — BEFORE THE ALTAR OF A CHURCH 
EUNIINA rises from the steps of the Altar. 

Elmina. The clouds are fearful that o'erhang 

thy ways. 
Oh, thou mysterious Heaven ! — It can not be 
That I have drawn the \ials of thy wrath, 
To burst upon me tlirough the Ufting up 
Of a proud heart, elate in happiness ! 
No ! in my day's full noon, for me life's flowers 
But wreathed a cup of trembUng; and the love. 
The boundless love my spirit was formed to bear, 
Hath ever, in its place of silence, been 
A trouble and a shadow, tinging thought 
With hues too deep for joy! — I never looked 
On my fair children, in their buoyant mirth, 
Or sunny sleep, when all the gentle air 
Seemed glowing with their quiet blessedness, 
But o'er my soul there came a shuddering sense 
Of earth, and its pale changes ; even like that 
Which vaguely mingles with our glorious dreams, 
A restless and disturbing consciousness 
That the bright things must fade! — How have I 

shrunk 
From the dull murmur of th" unquiet voice, 
With its low tokens of mortaUty, 
Till my heart fainted 'midst their smiles ! — their 

smiles ! 
— Where are those glad looks now? — Could they 

go down. 
With all their joyous light, that seemed not earth's, 
To the cold grave? — My children! — Righteous 

Heaven ! 
There floats a dark remembrance o'er my brain 
Of one who told me, with relentless eye. 
That this should be the hour ! 

XDIENA entere, 
Ximena. They are gone forth 
Unto the rescue ! — strong in heart and hope, 
Faithful, though few ! — My mother, let thy prayers 
Call on the land's good saints to lift once more 
The sword and cross that sweep the field for Spain. 
As in old battle ; so thine arms e'en yet 
May clasp thy sons !-0-For me, my part is done! 
The flame which dimly might have lingered yet 
A little while, hath gathered all its rays 
Brightly to sink at once ; and it is well ! 



62 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



The shadows are around me ; to thy heart 
Fold me, that I may die. 

Ehnina. My child ! — What dreara 
Is on thy soul ? — Even now thine aspect wears 
Life's brightest inspiration ! 

Ximena. Death's ! 

Elmina. Away! 
Thine eye hath starry clearness, and thy cheek 
Doth glow heneath it with a richer hue 
Than tinged its earliest flower ! 

Ximena. It well may be ! 
There are far deeper and far warmer hues 
Than those which draw their colouring from the 

founts 
Of youth, or health, or hope. 

Elmina. Nay, speak not thus! 
There 's that about thee shining which would send 
E'en through my heart a sunny glow of joy, 
Wer 't not for these sad words. The dim cold air 
And solemn light, which wrap these tombs and 

shrines 
As a pale gleaming shroud, seem kindled up 
With a young spirit of ethereal hope 
Caught from thy mie^i !— Oh no ! this is not death ! 

Ximena. Why should not He, whose touch dis- 
solves our chain. 
Put on his robes of beauty when he comes 
As a deliverer 1 — He hath many forms. 
They should not all be fearful !— If his call 
Be but our gathering to that distant land 
For whose sweet waters we have pined with thirst. 
Why should not its prophetic sense be borne 
Into the heart's deep stillness, with a breath 
Of summer-winds, a voice of melody, 
Solemn, yet lovely ?— Mother ! I depart ! 
— Be it thy comfort, in the aflcr-days, 
That thou hast seen me thus ! 

Elmina. Distract me not 
With such wild fears! Can I hear on with hfe 
When thou art gone?— Thy voice, thy step, thy 

smile, 
Passed from my path!— -Alas! even now thine 

eye 
Is changed — thy cheek is fliding ! 

Ximena. Ay, the clouds 
Of the dim hour are gathering o'er my sight, 
And yet I fear not, for the God of Help 
Comes in that quiet darkness ! — It may sooth 
Thy woes, my mother! if I tell thee now. 
With what glad calmness I behold the veil 
Falling between me and the world, wherein 
My heart so ill hath rested. 

Elmina. Thine ! 

Ximena. Rejoice 
For her, that, when the garland of her life 
Was blighted, and the sprii^s of hope were dried 
Received her summons hence ; and had no time, 
Bearing the canker at th' impatient heart, 
To wither, sorrowing for that gift of Heaven, 



Which lent one moment of existence light, 
That dimmed the rest for ever ! 

Elmina. How is this? 
My child, what raean'st thou? 

Ximena. Mother! I have loved, 
And been beloved ! — the sunbeam of an hour, 
Which gave life's hidden treasures to mine eye, 
As they lay shining in their secret founts. 
Went out, and left them colourless. — 'Tis past— 
And what remains on earth ? — the rainbow mist, 
Through which I gazed, hath melted, and my sight 
Is cleared to look on all things as they are ! 

But this is far too mournful ! — Life's dark gift 
Hath fallen too early and too cold upon me ! 
— Therefore I would go hence ! 
Elmina. And thou hast loved 

Unknown 

Xime7ia. Oh! pardon, pai'don that I veiled 
My thoughts from thee! — But thou hadst woes 

enough. 
And mine came o'er me when thy soul had need 
Of more than mortal strength ! — For I had scarce 
Given the deep consciousness that I was loved 
A treasure's place within my secret heart, 
When earth's brief joy went from me ! 

'Twas at morn 
I saw the warriors to their field go forth, 
And he — my chosen — was there amongst the rest, 
With his young, glorious brow I — I looked again — 
The strife grew dark beneath me — but his plume 
Waved free above the lanecs. — Yet again — 
— It had gone down ! and steeds were trampling 

o'er 
The spot to which mine eyes were riveted. 
Till blinded by th' intenseness of their gaze! 
— And then — at last — I hurried to the gate. 
And met him there! — I met him ! — on his shield, 
And with his cloven helm, and shivered sword. 
And dark hair steeped in blood! — They bore him 

past — 
Mother 1 — I saw his face ! — Oh ! such a death 
Works fearful changes on the fair of earth, 
The pride of woman's eye ! 

Elmina. Sweet daughter, peace I 
Wake not the dark remembrance ; for thy frame — 
Ximena. — There will be peace ere long. I shut 
my heart, 
Even as a tomb, o'er that lone silent grief, 
That I might spare it thee ! — But now the hour 
Is come when that which would have pierced thy 

soul 
Shall be its healing balm. Oh ! weep thou not, 
Save with a gentle sorrow ! 

Elmina. Must it be? 
Art thou indeed to leave me ? 

Ximena {cxuUingly'). Be thou glad ! 
I say, rejoice above thy favoured child ! 
Joy, for the soldier when his field is fought, 
Joy, for the peasant when his vintage-task 



THE SIEGE OF VALENCIA. 



63 



Is closed at cvc ! — But most of all for her, 
Who, when her life chanf^cd its glittorinjr robes 
For the dull garb of sorrow, which doth cling 
So heavily around the journcyers on. 
Cast down its weight — and slept ! 

Elmina. Alas ! thine eye 
Is wanderinjT — yet how brirrhtly ! — Is this deatli, 
Or some high wondrous vision? — Speak, my child ! 
How is it with thee now 1 

Ximcna {wildly). I see it still I 
'Tis floating, like a glorious cloud on high. 
My father's banner ! — Hear'st thou not a sound? 
The trumpet of Caslilel — Praise, praise toHeavcn ! 
— Now may the weary rest! — Be still! — Wiio calls 
The night so fearful % [-SVte dms. 

Elmina. No ! she is not dead ! 
— Ximena ! — speak to me ! — Oh ! yet a tone 
From that sweet voice, tliat I may gather in 
One more remembrance of its lovely sound. 
Ere the deep silence fail ! — What ! is all hushed'? 
— No, no! — it can not be ! — How should we bear 
The dark misgivings of our souls, if Heaven 
Left not such beings with us 7 — l>ut is this 
Her wonted look 1 — too sad a quiet lies 
On its dim fearful beauty! — Sjjcak, Ximena! 
Speak! — my heart dies within me ! — She is gone, 
With all her blessed smiles ! — My child ! my child ! 
Where art thou 1 — Where is that which answered 

me, 
From thy soft-shining eyes ! — Hush ! doth she 

move "? 
— One light lock seemed to tremble on her brow, 
As a pulse throblied beneath ; — 'twas but the voice 
Of my despair that stirred it ! — She is gone ! 

\_Shc Ihrow.i herself on the body. Gonzalez 
enters^ alone, and wounded. 

Elmina (rising as he approaches). I must not 
now be scorned ! — No, not a look, 
A wliisper of re()roach ! — Behold my wo 1 
— Thou canst not scorn me now ! 

Gonzalez. Hast thou heard all? 

Elmina. Thy daughter on my bosom laid her 
head, 
And passed away to rest. — Behold her there, 
Even such as death hath made her !(8) 

Gonzalez {bending over Ximena^s body). Thou 
art gone 
A little while before me, oh, my child ! 
Why should the traveller weep to part with those 
That scarce an hour will reach their promised land 
Ere he too cast his pilgrim staff away, 
And spread his couch beside them? 

Elmina. Must it be 
Henceforth enough that once a thing so fair 
Had its bright place amongst us 1 — Is this all? 
Left for the years to come? — We will not stay! 
Earth's chain each hour grows weaker. 

Gonzalez {still gazing upon Ximena). And 
thou 'rt laid 



To slumber in the shadow, blessed child! 

Of a yet staiidcss altar, and iMssidc 

A sainted warrior's tomb! — Oh, fitting place 

For thee to yield thy pure heroic soul 

Back unto him that gave it ! — And thy cheek 

Yet smiles in its bright paleness ! 

Elmina. liadst thou seen 
The look with which she [)aS3cd 

Gonzalez {still bending over her). Why, 'tis 
almost 
Like joy to view thy beautiful repose ! 
The faded image of that perlrct calm 
Floats, e'en as long-forgoUen mu.sic, back 
Into my weary heart! — No dark wild s[)ot 
On lliy clear brow doth tell of bloody liands 
That quenched young life by violence! — Wc have 

seen 
Too much of horror in one crowded hour, 
To weep for auglit, bo gently gathered hence! 
— Oh! man leaves other traces! 

Elmina {suddenly starting). It returns 
On my bewildered soul ! — Went ye not forth 
Unto the rescue'? — And thou'rt here alone! 
— Where are my sons? 

Gonzalez {solemnly), Wc were too late! 

Elmina. Too late! 
Hast thou nought else to tell me? 

Gonzalez. I brought back 
From that last field the banner of my sires, 
And my own death-wound, 

Elmina. Thine ! 

Gonzalez. Another hour 
Shall hush its throbs for ever. I go hence, 
And with me 

Elmina. No! — Man cotdd not lift his hands — 
— Where hast thou left thy sons ? 

Gonzalez. I have no sons. 

Elmina. What hast thou said 1 

Gonzalez. That now their lives not one 
To wear the glory of mine ancient house, 
When I am gone to rest. 

Elmina (throwing herself on the ground, and 
speaking in a low hurried voice). In one 
brief hour, all gone ! — and such a death ! 
— I see their blood gush forth!— their graceful 

heads — 
— Take the dark vision from me, oh, my God! 
And such a death for theml — I was not there ! , 
They were but mine in beauty and in joy, 
Not in that mortal anguish !— All, all gone ! 
— Why should I struggle more? — What is this 

Power, 
Against whose might, on all sides pressing us. 
We strive with fierce impatience, which but lays 
Our own frail spirits prostrate? 

(After a long pause). 
Now I know 

Thy liand, my God !— and they are soonest crush 
cd 



64 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



That most withstand it ! — I resist no more. 

( She rises). 
A liffht, a licjht springs up from grief and death, 
Which with its solemn radiance doth reveal 
Why we have thus been tried ! 

Gonzalez. Then I may still 
Fix my last look on thee, in holy love, 
Parting, but yet with hope ! 

Elmina. {falling at his feet). Canst thou for- 
give ? 
— Oh, I have driven the arrow to thy heart, 
That should have buried it within mine own, 
And borne the pang in silence ! — I have cast 
Thy life's fair honour, in my wild despair. 
As an unvalued gem upon the waves, 
Whence thou hast snatched it back, to bear from 

earth, 
All stainless, on thy breast. — Well hast thou 

done — 
But I — canst thou forgive 7 

Gonzalez. Within this hour 
I have stood upon that verge whence mortals fall. 
And learned how 'tis with one whose sight grows 

dim. 
And whose foot trembles on the gulf's dark side, 
— Death purifies all feehng — We will part 
In pity and in love. 

Elmina. Death! — And thou too 
Art on thy way! — Oh, joy for thee, high heart! 
Glory and joy for thee ! — The day is closed, 
And well and nobly hast thou borne thyself 
Through its long battle-toils, though many swords 
Have entered thine own ooul ! — But on my head 
Recoil the fierce invokings of despair. 
And I am left far distanced in the race. 
The lonely one of earth ! — Ay, this is just. 
I am not worthy that upon my breast 
In this, thine hour of victory, thou shouldst yield 
Thy spirit unto God ! 

Gonzalez. Thou art ! thou art ! 
Oh ! a life's love, a heart's long faithfulness. 
Even in the presence of eternal things. 
Wearing their chastened beauty all undimmed, 
Assert their lofty claims ; and these are not 
For one dark hour to cancel ! — We are here, 
Before that altar which received the vows 
Of our unbroken youth, and meet it is 
For such a witness, in the sight of Heaven, 
And in the face of death, whose shadowy arm 
Comes dim between us, to record th' exchange 
Of our tried hearts' forgiveness. — Who are they, 
That in one path have journeyed, needing not 
Forgiveness at its close 1 

{A Citizen enters hastily). 

Citizen. The Moors ! the Moors ! 

Gonzalez. How! is the city stormed 1 
Oh ! righteous Heaven ! — for tliis I looked not yet ! 
Hath all been done in vain 1 — Why then, 'tis time 
For prayer, and then to rest ! 



Citizen. The sun shall set. 
And not aCFu-istian voice be left for prayer 
To-night within Valencia! — Round our walls 
The paynim host is gathering for th' assault, 
And we have none to guard them. 

Gonzalez. Then my place 
Is here no longer, — I had hoped to die 
Even by the altar and the sepulchre 
Of my brave sires — but this was not to be I 
Give me my sword again, and lead me hence 
Back to the ramparts. I have yet an hour. 
And it hath still high duties. — Now, my wife ! 
Thou mother of my children — of the dead — 
Whom I name unto thee in steadfast hope — 
Farewell ! 

Elmina. No, not farewell! — My soul hath 
risen 
To mate itself with thine ; and by thy side 
Amidst the hurtHng lances I will stand, 
As one on whom a brave man's love hath been 
Wasted not utterly. 

Gonzalez. I thank thee. Heaven! 
That I have tasted of the awful joy 
Which thou hast given to tetaper hours like this, 
With a deep sense of thee, and of thine ends 
In these dread visitings ! 
( To Elmina). We will not part, 
But with the spirit's parting ! 

Elmina. One farewell 
To her, that, luantled with sad loveliness. 
Doth slumber at our feet ! — My blessed child ! 
Oh ! in thy heart's aftliction thou wert strong. 
And holy courage did pervade thy wo, 
As light the troubled waters! — Be at peace! 
Thou whose bright spirit made itself the soul 
Of all that were around thee! — And thy life 
E'en then was struck, and withering at the core I 
— Farewell ! — thy parting look hath on me fallen, 
E en as a gleam of heaven, and I am now 
More like what thou hast been! — My soul is 

hushed. 
For a still sense of purer worlds hath sunk 
And settled on its depths with that last smile 
Which from thine shone forth. — Thou hast not 

lived 
In vain — my child, farewell! 

Gonzalez. Surely for thee 
Death had no sting, Ximena ! — We are blest, 
To learn one secret of the shadowy pass. 
From such an aspect's calmness. Yet once more 
I kiss thy pale young cheek, my broken flower ! 
In token of th' undying love and hope, 
Whose land is far away. [Exeunt. 

SCENE — THE WALLS OP THE CITY. 

HERNANDEZ.— A few Citizens gathered round him. 

Hernandez. Why, men have cast the treasures, 
which their lives 



THE SIEGE OF VALENCIA. 



65 



Had been worn down in gathering, on the pyre, 
Ay, at their household hearths have lit the brand, 
Even from that shrine of quiet love to bear 
The flame which gave their temples and their 

homes, 
In ashes, to the winds! — They have done this, 
Making a blasted void where once the sun 
Looked upon lovely dwellings; and from earth 
Razing all record that on such a spot 
Childhood hath sprung, age faded, misery wept, 
And frail Humanity knelt before her God ; 
— They have done this, in their free nobleness, 
Rather than see the spoiler's tread pollute 
Their holy places ! — Praise, high praise be theirs, 
Who have left man such lessons I — And these 

things. 
Made your own hills their witnesses ! — The sky, 
Whose arch bends o'er 30U, and the seas, wherein 
Your rivers pour their gold, rejoicing saw 
The altar, and the birth-place, and the tomb, 
And all memorials of man's heart and faith. 
Thus proudly honoured ! — Be ye not outdone 
By the departed I — Though the godless foe 
Be close upon us, we have power to snatch 
The spoils of \ictory from him. Be but strong ! 
A few bright torches and brief moments yet 
Shall baflle his flushed hope, and we may die, 
Laughing him unto scorn. — Rise, follow me. 
And thou, Valencia! triumph in thy fate, 
The ruin, not the yoke, and make thy towers 
A beacon unto Spain ! 

Citizen. We'll follow thee ! 
— Alas ! for our fair city, and the homes 
Wherein we reared our children ! — But away ! 
The Moor shall plant no crescent o'er our faijes! 

Voice (from a Tovrer on the Walls.) Suc- 
cours! — Castile! Castile! 

Citizens (rushing to the spot.) It is even so! 
Now blessing be to Heaven, for we are saved! 
Castile, Castile! 

Voice {from the Tower.) Line after line of 
spears. 
Lance after lance, upon the horizon's verge, 
Like festal lights from cities bursting up, 
Doth skirt the plain 1 — In faith, a noble host! 

Another Voice. The Moor hath turned him 
from our walls, to front 
Th' advancing might of Spain ! 

Citizens (shouting.) Castile ! Castile ! 

(GONZALEZ enters, supported by ELMIXA and a Citizen.) 

Gonzalez. What shouts of joy are these 1 
Hernandez. Hail, chieftain ! hail! 
Thus ev'n in death 'tis given thee to receive 
The conqueror's crown ! — Behold our God hath 

heard, 
And armed himself with vengeance! — Lo! they 

come! 
The lances of Castile! 1 



I Gonzalez. I knew, I knew 
j Thou wouldst not utterly, my God, forsake 
I Thy sonant in his need ! — My blood and tears 
Have not sunk vainly to th' attesting earth ! 
Praise to thee, thanks and praise, that I have lived 
To see this hour ! 

Elmina. And I too bless thy name, 
Though thou hast proved me unto agony ! 
Oh God! — Thou God of chastening! 

Voice (from the Totcer.) They move on! 
I see the royal banner in the air, 
With its emblazoned towers! 

Gonzalez. Go, bring ye forth 
The banner of the Cid, and plant it here. 
To stream above me, for an answering sign 
That the good cross doth hold its lofty place 
^Vithin Valencia still! — What see ye now 1 
Hernandez. I see a kingdom's might upon its 
path, 
Monng in terrible magnificence. 
Unto revenge and victory ! — With the flash 
Of knightly swords, up-springing from the ranks, 
As meteors from a still and gloomy deep, 
And with the waving often thousand plumes. 
Like a land's harvest in the autumn-wind. 
And with fierce hght, which is not of the sun, 
But flung from sheets of steel — it comes, it comes. 
The vengeance of our God ! 
Gonzalez. I hear it now. 
The heavy tread of mail-clad multitudes, 
Like thunder-showers upon the forest-paths. 
Hernandez. Ay, earth knows well the omen of 
that sound. 
And she hath echoes, like a sepulchre's. 
Pent in her secret hollows, to respond 
Unto the step of death ! 

Gonzalez. Hark! how the wind 
Swells proudly to the battle-march of Spain ! 
Xow the heart feels its power ! — A httle while 
Grant me to hve, my God ! — "WTiat pause is this ! 
Hernandez. A deep and drea<lful one! — the 
serried files 
Level their spears for combat ; now the hosts 
Look on each other in their brooding wrath, 
Silent, and face to face. 

VOICES HEARD WITHOUT, CHAXTTVG. 

Calm on the bosom of thy Gt)d, 

Fair spirit ! rest thee now ! 
E'en while with ours thy footsteps trod, 

His seal was on thy brow. 

Dust, to its narrow house beneath ! 

Soul, to its place on high ! 
They that have seen thy look in death, 

No more may fear to die. 

Elmina (to Gonzalez.) It is the deatb-faymn 
o'er thy daughters bier 1 



6G 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



— But I am calm, and e'en like gentle winds, 
That music, through the stillness of my heart, 
Sends mournful peace. 

Gonzalez. Oh ! well those solemn tones 
Accord with such an hour, for all her life 
Breathed of a hero's soul ! 

[A sound of trumfets and shouting froin the plain. 
Hernandez. Now, now they close! — Hark! 
what a dull dead sound 
Is in the Moorish war-shout ! — I have known 
Such tones prophetic oft. — The shock is given — 
Lo! they have placed their shields before their 

hearts, 
And lowered their lances ■with the streamers on. 
And on their steeds bent forward ! — God for Spain ! 
The first bright sparks of battle have been struck 
From spear to spear, across the gleaming field 1 
— There is no sight on which the blue sky looks 
To match with this! — 'Tis not the gallant crests, 
Nor banners with their glorious blazonry, 
The very nature and high soul of man 
Doth now reveal itself ! 

Gonzalez. Oh, raise me up. 
That I may look upon the noble scene ! 
— It will not be! — That this dull mist would pass 
A moment from my sight !— Whence rose that 

shout, 
As in fierce triumph "? 

Hernandez (^clasping his hands.) Must I look 
on this 1 
The banner sinks — 'tis taken 1 
Gonzalez. Whose'? 
Hernandez. Castile's! 
Gonzalez. Oh, God of Battles ! 
Elmina. Calm thy noble heart! 
Thou wilt not pass away without thy meed. 
Nay, rest thee on my bosom. 

Hernandez. Cheer thee yet! 
Our knights have spurred to rescue. — There is 

now 
A whirl, a mingling of all terrible things, 
Yet more appalling than the fierce distinctness 
Wherewith they moved before ! — I see tall plumes 
All wildly tossing o'er the battle's tide, 
Swayed by the wrathful motion, and the press 
Of desperate oien, as cedar-boughs by storms. 
Many a white streamer there is dyed with blood. 
Many a false corslet broken, many a shield 
Pierced through! — Now, shout for Santiago, 

shout ! 
Lo! javelins with a moment's brightness cleave 
The thickening dust, and barbed steeds go down 
With their hehiied riders ! — Who, but one, can tell 
How spirits part amidst that fearful rush 
And trampling on of furious multitudes? 

Gonzalez. Thou 'rt silent ! — Sce'st thou more'? 

— My soul grows dark. 
Hernandez. And dark and troubled as an an- 
gry sea, 



Dashing some gallant armament in scorn 
Against its rocks, is all on which I gaze ! 
— I can but tell thee how tall spears are crossed, 
And lances seem to shiver, and proud helms 
To lighten with the stroke! — But round the spot, 
Where, like a storm- felled mast, our standard sank, 
The heart of battle burns. 

Gonzalez. Where is that spot? 
Hernadez. It is beneath the lonely tuft of palms, 
That lift their green heads o'er the tumult still, 
In calm and stately grace. 

Gonzalez. There, didst thou say? 
Then God is with us, and we must prevail ! 
For on that spot they died ! — My children's blood 
Calls on th' avenger thence ! 

Elmina. They perished there ! 
— And the bright locks that waved so joyously 
To the free winds, lay trampled and defiled 
Ev'n on that place of death ! — Oh, Merciful ! 
Hush the dark thought within me ! 

Hernandez (with sudden e.xuliation'). Who is he, 
On the white steed, and with the castled helrn. 
And the gold-broidered mantle, which doth float 
E'en like a sunny cloud above the fight ; 
And the pale cross, which from his breast-plate 

gleams 
With star-like radiance ? 

Gonzalez (eagerly). Didst thou say the cross ? 
Hernandez. On his mailed bosom shines a broad 
white cross, 
And his long plumage through the darkening air 
Streams like a snow-wreath. 
Gonzalez. That should be — 
Hernandez. The king ! 
— Was it not told us how he sent, of late. 
To the Cid's tomb, e'en for the silver cross, 
Which he wlio slumbers there was wont to bind 
O'er his brave heart in fight ?(9) 

Gonzalez (springing up joyfully). My king! 
my king ! 
Now all good saints for Spain ! — My noble king ! 
And thou art there ! — That I might look once more 
Upon thy face 1 — But yet I thank thee, Heaven! 
That thou hast sent him from my dying hands 
Thus to receive his city! 

[He sinks hack into Elmina^s arms. 
Hernandez. He hath cleared 
A pathway 'midst the combat, and the light 
Follows his charge through yon close living mass. 
E'en as the gleam on some proud vessel's wake 
Along the stormy waters ! — 'Tis redeemed — 
The castled banner ! — It is flung once more 
In joy and glory, to the sweeping winds ! 
— "There seems a wavering through the paynim 

hosts — 
Castile doth press them sore — Now, now rejoice ! 
Gonzalez. What hast thou seen ? 
Hernandez. Abdullah falls ! He faUs ! 
The man of blood ! — the spoiler ! he hath sunk 



THE SIEGE OF VALENCIA. 



C7 



In our king's path ! — Well hath that royal sword 
Avenged thy cause, Gonzalez ! 

They give way, 
The Crescent's van is broken ! — On the hills 
And the dark pine-woods may the infidel 
Call vainly, in his agony of fear, 
To cover him from vengeance! — Lo! they fly! 
They of the forest and the wilderness 
Are scattered e'en as leaves upon the wind ! 
Wo to the sons of Afric ! — Let the plains, 
And the vine-mountains, and Hesperian seas. 
Take their dead unto them I — that blood shall wash 
Our soil from stains of bondage. 

Gonzalez {attempting to raise himself^. Set me 
free I 
Come with me forth, for I must greet my king. 
After his battle-field ! 

Hernandez. Oh, blest in death ! 
Chosen of Heaven, farewell ! — Look on the Cross, 
And part from earth in peace ! 

Gonzalez. Now charge once more ! 
God is with Spain, and Santiago's sword 
Is reddening all the air ! — Siiout forth 'Castile !' 
The day is ours I — I go ! but fear ye not ! 
For Afric's lance is broken, and my sons 
Have won their first good field ! [He dies. 

Elmina. Look on me yet ! 
Speak one farewell, my husband ! — must thy voice 
Enter my soul no more ! — Thine eye is fixed — 
Now is my life uprooted, — and 'tis well. 

(il Sound qftriu7nphant 3Iusic is heard, and 
■many Castilian Knights and Soldiers 
enter). 

A Citizen. Hush your triumphal sounds, al- 
though ye come 
E'en as deliverers ! — But the noble dead, 
And those that mourn them, claim from human 

hearts 
Deep silent reverence. 

Elmina (rising proudly). No, swell forth, Cas- 
tile! 
Thy trumpet-music, till the seas and heavens, 
And the deep hills, give every stormy note 
Echoes to ring through Spain ! — How. know ye 

not 
That all arrayed for triumph, crowned and robed 
With the strong spirit which had saved the land, 
Ev'n now a conqueror to his rest is gone? 
— Fear not to break tiiat sleep, but let the wind 
Swell on with victory's shout ! — He will not hear — 
Hath earth a sound more sad 1 

Hernandez. Lift ye the dead. 
And bear him with the banner of his race 
Waving above him proudly, as it waved 
O'er the Cid's battles, to the tomb, wherein 
His warrior-sires are gathered. 

[ They raise the body. 

Elmina. Ay, tis thus 
Thou shouldst be honoured ! — And I follow thee 



With an unfaltering and a lofty step, 

To that last home of glory. She that wears 

In her deep heart the memory of thy love 

Shall thence draw strength for all thino-s, till the 

God, 
Whose hand around her hath unpeopled earth, 
Looking upon her still and chastened soul, 
Call it once more to thine ! 

( To the Castilians). 

Awake, I say. 
Tambour and trumpet, wake! — And let the land 
Through all her mountains hear your funeral peal ! 
— So should a hero pass to his repose. 

[Exeunt omnes. 



NOTES. 

Note 1, page 41, col. 1. 
MouKTAiN Christians, those natives of Spain, 
who, under their prince, Pelayo, took refuge 
amongst the mountains of the northern provinces, 
where they maintained their religion and liberty, 
whilst the rest of their country was overrun by the 
Moors. 

Note 2, page 49, col. I. 
Oh, free doth soitow pass, &c. 
Frey geht das Ungliick durch die ganze Erde. 
Schiller's Death of Wallenstein, act iv. sc. 2. 

Note 3, page 50, col. 2. 
Tizona, the firebrand. The name of the Cid's 
favourite sword, taken in battle from the Moorish 
king Bucar. 

Note 4, page 50, col. 2. 
How he won Valencia from the Moor, <tc. 
Valencia, which has been repeatedly besieged, 
and taken by the armies of diiferent nations, re- 
mained in the possession of the Moors for an hun- 
dred and seventy years after the Cid's death. It 
was regained from them by King Don Jayme of 
Aragon, surnamed the Conqueror; after whose 
success I have ventured to suppose it governed by 
a descendant of the Campeador. 

Note 5, page 57, col. 2. 
It was a Spanish tradition, that the great bell of 
the Cathedral of Saragossa always tolled sponta- 
neously before a king of Spain died. 

Note 6, page 58, col. 2. 
" El que en buen hora nasco ;" he that was born 
in happy hour. An appellation given to the Cid 
in the ancient chronicles. 

Note 7, page 58, col. 2. 
For this, and the subsequent allusions to Spanish 
legends, see The Romances and Chronicle of the 
Cid. 



68 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



Note 8, page 63, col. 1. 

" La voila, telle que la niort nous I'a faite !" — 
Bossuet, Oraisons Funehres. 

Note 9, page 66, col. 2. 
This circumstance is recorded of King Don Al- 



fonso, the last of that name. He sent to the Cid's 
tomb for the cross which that warrior was accus- 
tomed to wear upon his breast when he went to 
battle, and had it made into one for himself ; " be- 
cause of the faith, which he had, that through it 
he should obtain the victory." — Southey's Chroni- 
cle qfthe Cid. 



©fie Wtnm^^ <5t S^aletmo. 



A TRAGEDY, 

IN FIVE ACTS. 



DRAMATIS PERSONS. 

Count di Procida. 
Raimond di Procida, his Son. 
Eribert, Viceroy. 
De Couci. 
montalba. 
GaiDO. 
Alberti. 
Anselmo, a Monk. 
Vittoria. 

Constance, Sister to Eribert. 
J^Iobles, SoldierSj Messengers, Vassals, Peasants, 

scene — PALERMO. 



ACT THE FIRST. 

SCENE I. — A VALLEY, WITH VINEYARDS AND COT- 
TAGES. 

Groups of Peasa>?ts— PROCIDA, disguised as a Pilgrim, 

amongst Aem. 

First Peasant. Ay, this was wont to be a fes- 
tal time 
In days gone by! I can remember well 
The old famiUar melodies that rose 
At break of morn, from all our purple hills, 
To welcome in the vintage. Never since 
Hath music seemed so sweet. But the light hearts 
Which to those measures beat so joyously 
Are tamed to stillness now. There is no voice 
Of joy through all the land. 

Second Peasant. Yes ! there are sounds 
Of revelry within the palaces. 
And the fait castles of our ancient lords. 
Where now the stranger banquets. Ye may hear. 
From thence the peals of song and laughter rise 
At midnight's deepest hour. 

Third Peasant. Alas! we sat 
In happier days, so peacefuUy beneath 



The olives and the vines our fathers reared. 
Encircled by our children, whose quick steps 
Flew by us in the dance ! The time hath been 
When peace was in the hamlet, wheresoe'er 
The storm might gather. But this yoke of France 
Falls on the peasant's neck as heavily 
As on the crested chieftain's. We are bowed 
E'en to the earth. 

Peasant's Child. My father, tell me when 
Shall the gay dance and song again resound 
Amidst our chesnut-woods, as in those days 
Of which thou'rt wont to tell the joyous tale 1 

First Peasant. When there are light and reck- 
less hearts once more 
In Sicily's green vales. Alas ! my boy, 
Men meet not now to quaif the flowing bowl, 
To hear the mirthful song, and cast aside 
The weight of work-day care: — they meet, to 

speak 
Of wrongs and sorrows, and to whisper thoughts 
They dare not breathe aloud. 

Procida {from the hack ground). Ay, it is well 
So to relieve th' o'erburdened heart, which pants 
Beneath its weight of wrongs ; but better far 
In silence to avenge them! 

An old Peasant. What deep voice 
Came with that startling tone 1 

First Peasant. It was our guest's. 
The stranger pilgrim, who hath sojourned here 
Since yester-morn. Good neighbours, mark him 

well: 
He hath a stately bearing, and an eye 
Whose glance looks through the heart. His mien 

accords 
111 with such vestments. How he folds round him 
His pilgrim-cloak, e'en as it were a robe 
Of knightly ermine ! That commanding step 
Should have been used in courts and camps to 

move. 
Mark him ! 

Old Peasant. Nay, rather, mark him not : the 
times 



THE VESPERS OF PALERMO. 



69 



Are fearful, and tiiej^ teacli the boldest hearts 
A cautious lesson. What should bring him here 1 

A Youth. He spoke of vengeance ! 

Old Peasant. Peace ! we are beset 
By snares on every side, and we must learn 
In silence and in patience to endure. 
Talk not of vengeance, for the word is death. 

Procida (coming forward indignantly^ The 

word is death ! And what hath life for thee 

That thou shouldst cling to it thus 1 thou abject 

thing ! 
Whose very soul is moulded to the yoke, 
And stamped with servitude. What ! is it life. 
Thus at a breeze to start, to school thy voice 
Into low fearful whispers, and to cast 
Pale jealous looks around thee, lest, e'en then. 
Strangers should catch its echo 7 — Is there aught 
In this so precious, that thy furrowed cheek 
Is blanched with terror at the passing thought 
Of hazarding some few and evil days. 
Which drag thus poorly on ? 

Some of the Peasants. Away, away ! 
Leave us, for there is danger in thy presence. 

Procida. Why, what is danger 1 — Are there 
deeper ills 
Than those ye bear thus calmly? Ye have drained 
The cup of bitterness, till nought remains 
To fear or shrink from — therefore, he ye strong ! 
Power dwelleth with despair. — Why start ye thus 
At words vchich are but echoes of the thoughts 
Locked in 3'our secret souls 1 — Full well I know, 
There is not one amongst you, but hath nursed 
Some proud indignant feeling, which doth make 
One conflict of his life. I know thij wrongs, 
And thine — and thine, — but if witiiin your breasts 
There is no chord that vibrates to my voice. 
Then fare ye well. 

A Youth (coming forward.) No, no ! say on, 
say on ! 
There are still free and fiery hearts e'en here, 
That kindle at thy words. 

Peasant. If that indeed 
Thou hast a hope to give us. 

Procida. There is hope 
For all who suffer with indignant thoughts 
Which work in silent strength. What ! think ye 

Heaven 
O'erlooks th' oppressor, if he bear awhile 
His crested head on high? — I tell you, no! 
Th' avenger will not sleep. It was an hour 
Of triumph to the conqueror, when our king, 
Our young brave Conradin, in life's fair morn, 
On the red scaffold died. Yet not the less 
Is justice throned above ; and her good time 
Comes rushing on in storms : that royal blood 
Hath lifted an accusing voice from earth 
And hath been heard. The traces of the past 
Fade in man's heart, but ne'er doth Heaven fonret. 



Peasant. Had we but arms and leaders, we are 
men 
Who might earn vengeance yet ; but wantingthese, 
What wduldst thou have us do 1 

Procida. Be vigilant ; 
And when the signal wakes the land, arise ! 
The peasant's arm is strong, and there shall be 
A rich and noble harvest. Fare ye well. 

[Exit Procida. 

First Peasant. This man should be a prophet: 
how he seemed 
To read our hearts with hu| dark searching glance 
And aspect of command ! And yet his garb 
Is mean as ours 

Second Peasant. Speak low; I know him well. 
At first his voice disturbed me like a dream 
Of other days ; but I remember now 
His form, seen oft when in my youth I served 
Beneath the banners of our kings. 'Tis he 
Who hath been exiled and proscribed so long, 
The Count di Procida. 

Peasant. And is this he ? 
Then Heaven protect him ! for around his steps 
Will many snares be set. 

Pirst Peasant. He comes not thus 
But with some mighty purpo.se ; doubt it not : 
Perchance to bring us freedom. He is one, 
Whose faith, through many a trial, hath been proved 
True to our native princes. But away! 
The noon-tide heat is past, and from the seas 
Light gales are wandering through the vineyards; 

now 
We may resume our toil. 

[E.reunt Peasants. 

SCENE II. — THE TERRACE OF A CASTLE. 
ERIBERT. VITTORIA. 

Viltoria. Have I not told thee, that I bear a heart 
Blighted and cold 1 — Th'afibctions of my youth 
Lie slumbering in the grave; their fount is closed, 
And all the soft and playful tenderness 
Wiiich hath its home in woman's breast, ere yet 
Deep wrongs have seared it ; all is fled from mine. 
Urge me no more. 

Er ibert. O lady ! doth the flower 
That sleeps entombed through the long wintry 

storms 
Unfold its beauty to the breath of spring ; 
And shall not woman's heart, from chill despair, 
Wake at love's voice 1 

Viltoria. Love ! — make love's name thy spell, 
And I am strong ! — the very word calls up 
From tlie dark past, thoughts, feelings, powers, 

arrayed 
In arms against thee ! — Knowest thou whom I loved, 
While my soul's dwelling-place was still on earth 1 
One who was born for empire, and endowed 
With such higli gifts of princely majesty, 



70 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



As bowed all hearts before him ! — Was he not 
Brave, royal, beautiful ■ — And sueh he died ; 
He died ! — hast thou forgotten"? — And thou 'rtlicre, 
Thou mectest my glance with eyes which coldly 

looked, 
— Coldly ! — nay, rather with triumphant gaze, 
Upon his murder ! — Desolate as I am, 
Yet in the mien of th ine affianced bride. 
Oh, my lost Conradin ! there should be still 
Somewhat of lotHncss, which might o'erawe 
The hearts of thine assassins. 

Eribcrt. Haughty d^ne ! 
If thy proud heart to tenderness be closed, 
Know, danger is around thee : thou hast foes 
That seek thy ruin, and my power alone 
Can shield thee from their arts. 

Jlttoria. Provencal, tell 
Thy tale of danger to some happy heart, 
Which hath its little world of loved ones round, 
For whom to tremble ; and its tranquil joys 
That make earth. Paradise. I stand alone ; 
— They that are blest may tear. 

Eribert. Is there not one 
Who ne'er commands in vain 1 — proud lady, bend 
Thy spirit to thy fate ; for know that he. 
Whose car of triumph in its earthquake path 
O'er the bowed neck of prostrate Sicily, 
Hath borne him to dominion ; he, my king, 
Charles of Anjou, decrees thy hand the boon 
]\Iy deeds have well deserved ; and who hath power 
Against his mandates ? 

Tlttoria. Viceroy, tell thy lord. 
That e'en where chains lie heaviest on the land. 
Souls may not all be fettered. Oft, ere now, 
Conquerors have rocked the earth, yet failed to 

tame 
Unto their purposes, that restless fire. 
Inhabiting man's breast. — A spark bursts forth, 
And so they perish I — 'tis the fate of those 
Who sport with lightning — And it may be his. 
— Tell him I fear him not, and thus am free. 

Eribert. 'Tis well. Then nerve that lofty heart 
to bear 
The wrath which is not powerless. Yet again 
Bethink thee, lady ! — Love may change — hath 

changed 
To vigilant hatred oft, whose sleepless eye 
Still iinds what most it seeks for. Fare thee well. 
— Look to it yet ! — To-morrow I return. 

[Exit Eribert. 

Vittoria. To-morrow! — Some ere now have 
slept, and dreamt 
Of morrows which ne'er dawned — or ne'erfor them; 
So silently then- deep and still repose 
Hath melted into death ! — Are there not balms 
In nature's boundless realm, to pour out sleep 
Like this, on me 1 — Yet should my spirit still 
Endure its earthly bonds, till it could bear 
To his a glorious tale of his own isle, 



Free and avenged. — Thou should 'st be now at 

work. 
In wrath, my native Etna ! who dost lift 
Thy spiry pillar of dark smoke so high, 
Through the red heaven of sunset ! — sleep'st thou 

still. 
With all thy founts of fire, while spoilers tread 
The glowing vales beneath'? 

{Procida enters disguised.) 

Ha ! who art thou, 
Unbidden guest, that with so mute a step 
Dost steal upon me ? 

Procida. One, o'er whom hath passed 
All that can change man's aspect ! — Yet not long 
Shalt thou find safety in forgetfulness. 
— I am he, to breathe whose name is perilous. 
Unless thy wealth could bribe the winds to silence, 
— Know'st thou this, lady ? — [He shotcs a ring: 

Vittoria. Righteous Heaven ! the pledge 
Amidst his people from the scalibld thrown 
By him who perished, and whose lungly blood 
E'en yet is unatoned. — My heart beats high — 
— Oh, welcome, welcome ! thou art Procida, 
Th' Avenger, the Deliverer ! 

Procida. Call me so 
When my great task is done. Yet who can tell 
If the returned be welcome? — Many a heart 
Is changed since last we met. 

Vittoria. Why dost thou gaze, 
With such a still and solemn earnestness, 
Upon my altered mien'? 

Procida. That I may read 
If to the widowed love of Conradin, 
Or the proud Eribert's triiunphant bride, 
I now entrust my fate. 

Vittoria. Thou, Procida ! 
That thou shouldst wrong me thus ! — Prolong thy 

gaze 
Till it hath found an answer. 

Procida. 'Tis enough. 
I find it in thy cheek, whose rapid change 
Is from death's hue to fever's ; in the wild 
Unsettled brightness of thy proud dark eye. 
And in thy wasted form. Ay, 'tis a deep 
And solemn joy, thus in th}' looks to trace. 
Instead of youth's gay bloom, the characters 
Of noble sufl'ering ; — on thy brow the same 
Commanding spirit holds its native state 
Which could not stoop to vileness. Yet the voice 
Of Fame hath told afar that thou shouldst wed 
This tj-rant, Eribert. 

Vittoria. And told it not 
A tale of insolent love repelled with scorn. 
Of stern commands and fearful menaces 
Met with indignant courage 1 — Procida I 
It was but now that haughtily I braved 
His sovereign's maiadate, which decrees my hand, 
With its fair appanage of wide domains 
And wealthy vassals, a most fitting boon 



THE VESPERS OF PALERMO. 



n 



To recomi;en6e his crimes. — I smiled — ay, smiled — 
In proud security I for tlie lii^'h of heart 
Have still a pathway to escape disgrace, 
Though it be dark and lone. 

Procida. Thou shalt not need 
To tread its shadowy mazes. Trust my words: 
I tell thee, that a spirit is abroad, 
Which will not slumber till its path be traced 
By deeds of fearful fame. Vitloria, live ! 
It is most meet that thou shouldst live, to see 
The mighty expiation ; for thy heart 
(Forgive me that I wronffed its faith) hath nursed 
A high, majestic grief, whose seal Ls set 
Deep on thy rnarble brow. 

Vitloria. Then thou canst tell. 
By gazing on the withered rose, that there 
Time, or the blight, hath worked ! — Ay, this is in 
Thy vision's scope : but oh ! the things unseen, 
Untold, undreamt of, which hke shadows pass 
Hourly o'er that mysterious world, a mind 
To ruin struck by grief! — Yet doth my .soul, 
Far, 'midst its darkness, nurse one soaring hope, 
Wherein is bright vitality. — 'Tis to see 
His blood avenged, and his fair heritage. 
My beautiful native land, in glory risen, 
Like a warrior from his slumbers ! 

Procida. Hear'st thou not 
With what a deep and ominous moan, the voice 
Of our great mountain swells? — There will be soon 
A fearful burst I — Vittoria I brood no more 
In silence o'er thy sorrows, but go forth 
Amidst thy va-ssals, (yet be secret still) 
And let thy breath give nurture to the spark 
Thou 'It find already kindled. I move on 
In shadow, yet awakening in my path 
That which shall startle nations. Fare thee well. 

Vittoria. When shall we meet again 7 — Are we 
not those 
Whom most he loved on earth, and think'st thou 

not 
That love e'en yet shall bring his spirit near 
While thus we hold communion 1 

Procida. Yes, I feel , 

Its breathing influence whilst I look on thee, 
Who wert its light in life. Yet will we not 
Make womanish tears our offering on his tomb ; 
He shall have nobler tribute ! — I must hence. 
But thou shalt soon hear more. Await the time. 
[Exeunt separately. 

SCENE MI. — THE SEA SHORE. 
RAIMOXD DI PROCIDA. CONSTANCE. 

Constance. There is a shadow far within your 

eye. 
Which hath of late been deepening. You were 

wont 
Upon the clearness of your open brow 
To wear a brighter spirit, shedding round 



Joy, like our southern sun. It is not well. 
If some dark thought be gathering o'er your soul, 
To hide it from affection. Why is this, 
My Raiinond, w hy is this 1 

Raimand. Oh ! from the dreams 
Of youth, sv^ect Constance, hath not manhood still 
A wild and stormy wakening? — They depart, 
Light after light, our glorious visions fade, 
The vaguely beautiful ! till earth, unveiled. 
Lies pale around; and liii;'s realities 
Press on the wjul, from its unfathomed depth 
Rousing the fiery feelings, and proud thoughts. 
In all their fearful strength ! — 'Tis ever thus. 
And doubly so with me ; for I awoke 
With high aspirings, making it a curse 
To breathe where noble minds are bowed, as here. 
— To breathe! — It is not breath ! 

Constance. I know thy grief, 
— And is 't not mine? — for those devoted men 
Doomed with their life to expiate some wild word 
Born of the social hour. Oh ! I have knelt, 
E'en at my brother's feet, with fruitless tears, 
Imploring him to spare. His heart is shut 
Against my voice ; yet will I not forsake 
The cause of mercy. 

Raimond. Waste not thou thy prayers, 
Oh, gentle love, for them. There's Httle need 
For Pity, though the galling chain be worn 
By some few slaves the less. Let them depart ! 
There is a world beyond th' oppressor's reach. 
And thither lies their way. 
Constance. Alas ! I see 
That some new wrong hath pierced you to the 
soul. 
Raimond. Pardon, beloved Constance, if my 
words. 
From feelings hourly stung, have caught, per- 
chance, 
A tone of bitterness. — Oh ! when thine eyes. 
With their sweet eloquent thoughtfulness, are 

fixed 
Thus tenderly on mine, I should forget 
All else in their soft beams ; and yet I came 
To tell thee — 

Constance. Wliatl What wouldst thou say? 
O speak ! 
Thou wouldst not leave me ! 

Raimond. I have ca.st a cloud. 
The shadow of dark thoughts and ruined fortunes, 
O'er thy bright spirit. Happily, were I gone. 
Thou wouldst resume thyself, and dwell once more 
In the clear sunny light of 3'outh and joy. 
E'en as before we met — before we loved ! 

Constance. This is but mockery. — Well thou 
know'st thy love 
Hath given me nobler being; made my heart 
A home for all the deep sublimities 
Of .strong affection; and I would not change 
Th' exalted life I draw from that pure source, 



73 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



With all its chequered hues of hope and fear, 
Ev'n for the brightest calm. Thoii most unkind ! 
Have I deserved this? 

Raimond. Oh ! thou hast deserved 
A love less fatal to thy love and mine. 
Think not 'tis mockery ! — But I can not rest 
To be the scorned and trampled thing I am 
In this degraded land. Its very skies, 
That smile as if but festivals were held 
Beneath tiieir cloudless azure, weigh me down 
With a dull sense of bondage, and I pine 
For freedom's chartered air. I would go forth 
To seek my noble father ; he hath been 
Too long a lonely exile, and his name 
Seems fading in the dim obscurity 
Which gathers round my fortunes. 

Constance. Must we part ? 
And is it come to this ^— Oh ! I have still 
Deemed it enough of joy with thee to share 
E'en grief itself— and now — but this is vain ; 
Alas! too deep, too fond, in woman's love, 
Too full of hope, she casts on troubled waves 
The treasures of her soul ! 

Raimond. Oh, speak not thus ! 
Thy gentle and desponding tones fall cold 
Upon my inmost heart. — I leave thee but 
To be more worthy of a love like thine. 
For I have dreamt of fame !— A few short years. 
And we may yet be blest. 

Constance. A few short years ! 
Less time may well suffice for death and fate 
To work all change on earth !— To break the ties 
Which early love had formed ; and to bov? down 
Th' elastic spirit, and to bhght each flower 
Strewn in life's crowded path ! — But be it so ! 
Be it enough to know that happiness 
Meets thee on other shores. 

Raimond. Where'er I roam 
Thou shalt be with my soul ! — Thy soft low voice 
Shall rise upon remembrance, like a strain 
Of music heard in boyhood, bringing back 
Life's morning freshness.— Oh ! that there should be 
Things, which we love with such deep tenderness. 
But, through that love, to learn how much of wo 
Dwells in one hour like this ! — Yet weep thou not ! 
We shall meet soon ; and many days, dear love, 
Ere I depart. 

Constance. Then there's a respite still. 
Days ! — not a day but in its course may bring 
Some strange vicissitude to turn aside 
Th' impending blow we shrink from. — Fare thee 
well. {returning) 

— Oh, Raimond! this is not our last farewell? 
Thou wouldst not so deceive me 1 

Raimond. Doubt me not. 
Gentlest and best beloved ! we meet again. 

[Exit Constance. 

Raimond {after aipause). When shall I breathe 
in freedom, and give scope 



To those untameable and burning thoughts 

And restless aspirations, which consume 

My heart i' th' land of bondage! — Oh! with you, 

Ye everlasting images of power. 

And of infinity ! thou blue-rolhng deep, 

And you, ye stars ! whose beams are characters 

Wherewith the oracles of faith are traced ; 

With you my soul finds room, and casts aside 

The weight that doth oppress her. — But my 

thoughts 
Are wandering far ; there should be one to share 
This awful and majestic solitude 
Of sea and heaven with me. 

{Proclda enters unobserved). 
It is the hour 
He named, and yet he comes not. 

Procida {coming forward). He is here. 

Raimond. Now, thou mysterious stranger, 
thou, whose glance 
Doth fix itself on memory, and pursue 
Thought, like a spirit, haunting its lone hours; 
Reveal thyself; what art thou 1 

Procida. One, whose life 
Hath been a troubled stream, and made its way 
T hrough rocks and darkness, and a thousand storms, 
With still a mighty aim. — But now the shades 
Of eve are gathering round me, and I come 
To this, my native land, that I may rest 
Beneath its vines in peace. 

Raimond. Seek'st thou for peace 1 
This is no land of peace ; unless that deep 
And voiceless terror, which doth freeze men's 

thoughts 
Back to their source, and mantle its pale mien 
With a dull hollow semblance of repose, 
May so be called. 

Procida. There are such calms full oft 
Preceding earthquakes. But I have not been 
So vainly schooled by fortune, and inured 
To shape my course on peril's dizzy brink, 
That it should irk my spirit to put on 
Such guise of hushed submissiveness as best 
May suit the.troubled aspect of the times. 

Raimond. Why, then, thou art welcome, stran- 
ger ! to the land 
Where most disguise is needful. — He were bold 
Who now shoidd wear his thoughts upon his brow 
Beneath Sicilian skies. The brother's eye 
Doth search distrustfully the brother's face ; 
And friends, whose undivided fives have drawn 
From the same past, their long remembrances, 
Now meet in terror, or no more ; lest hearts 
Full to o'erflowing, in their social hour. 
Should pour out some rash word, which roving 

winds 
Might whisper to our conquerors. — This it is, 
To wear a foreign yoke. 

Procida. It matters not 
To him who holds the mastery o'er his spirit, 



THE VESPERS OF PALERMO. 



73 



And can sui)press its workings, till endurance 
Becomes a nature. We can tame ourselves 
To all extremes, and there is that in life 
To which we cling with most tenacious grasp, 
Even when its lofty claims are all reduced 
To the poor common privilege of breathing. — 
Why dost thou turn away 1 

Raimond. What wouldest thou with me ? 
I deemed thee, by th' ascendant soul which lived, 
And made its throne on thy commanding brow. 
One of a sovereign nature, which would scorn 
So to abase its high capacities 
For aught on earth. . But thou art like the rest. 
What wouldest thou with me 1 

Procida. I would counsel thee. 
Thou must do that whicii men — ay, valiant men, — 
Hourly submit to do ; in the proud court. 
And in the stately camp, and at the board 
Of midnight revellers, whose fluslicd mirth is all 
A strife, won hardly. — Where \s he^ whose heart 
Lies bare, through all its foldings, to the gaze 
Of mortal eyel — If vengeance wait the foe, 
Or fate th' oppressor, 'tis in depths concealed 
Beneath a smiling surface. — Youth ! I say 
Keep thy soul down ! — Put on a mask ! — 'tis worn 
Alike by power and weakness, and the smooth 
And specious intercourse of life requires 
Its aid in every scene. 

Raimond. Away, dissembler ! 
Life hath its high and its ignoble tasks, 
Fitted to every nature. Will the free 
And royal eagle stoop to learn the arts 
By which the serpent wins his spell-bound prey 1 
It is because I will not clothe myself 
In a vile garb of coward semblances. 
That now, e'en now, I struggle with my heart, 
To bid what most I love a long farewell, 
And seek my country on some distant shore, 
Where such things are unknown ! 

Procida {cxultinghj'). Why, this is joy ! 
After a long conflict with the doubts and fears, 
And the poor subtleties of meaner minds, 
To meet a sjiirit, whose bold ela.stic wing 
Oppression hath not crushed.— High-hearted youth! 
Thy father, should his footsteps e'er again 
"Visit these shores — 

Raimond. My father ! what of him 1 
Speak ! was he known to thee 1 

Procida. In distant lands 
With him I've traversed many a wild, and looked 
On many a danger ; and the thought that thou 
Wert smiling then in peace, a happy boy. 
Oft through the storm hath cheered him. 

Raimond. Dost thou deem 
That still he lives 1 — Oh ! if it be in chains, 
In wo, in poverty's obscurest cell. 
Say but he lives — and I will track his steps 
E'en to earth's verge ! 

Procida. It may be that he lives : 



Thougli long his name hath ceased to be a word 
Familiar iii man's dwellings. But its sound 
May yet be heard! — Raimond di Procida, 
— Rcmemberest thou thy fatlier 1 

Raimond. From my mind 
His form hath faded long, for years have passed 
Since he went forth to exile : but a vague, 
Yet powerful, imago of deep majesty. 
Still dimly gathering round each thought of him, 
Doth claim instinctive reverence ; and my love 
For his inspiring name hath long become 
Part of my being. 

Procida. Raimond ! doth no voice 
Speak to thy soul, and tell thee whose the arms 
That would enfold thee now 1 — My son ! my son ! 

Raimond. Father! — Oh God! — my father! — 
Now I know 
Why my heart woke before thee ! 

Procida. Oh ! this hour 
Makes hope, reality ; for thou art all 
My dreams had pictured thee ! 

Raimond. Yet why so long, 
E'en as a stranger, hast thou crossed my paths, 
One nameless and unknown?— and yet I felt 
Each pulse within me thrilling to thy voice. 

Procida. Because I would not link thy fate with 
mine, 
Till I could hail the day-spring of that hope 
Which now is gathering round us. — Listen, youth! 
Thou hast told me of a subdued, and scorned. 
And trampled land, whose very soul is bowed 
And ftishioned to her chains: — but /tell thee 
Of a most generous and devoted land, 
A land of kindling energies ; a land 
Of glorious recollections ! — proudly true 
To the high memory of her ancient kings. 
And rising, in majestic scorn, to cast 
Her alien bondage ofl!"! 

Raimond. And where is this 7 

Procida. Here, in our isle, our own fair Sicily ! 
Her s[)irit is awake, and moving on. 
In its deep silence mightier, to regain 
Her place amongst the nations ; and the hour 
Of that tremendous efl'ort is at hand. 

Raimond. Can it be thus indeed 1 — Thou pour- 
est new life 
Through all my burning veins I — I am as one 
Awakening from a chill and death-like sleep 
To tlie full glorious day. 

Procida. Thou shalt hear more ! 
Thou shalt hear things which would, — which will 

arouse 
The proud, free spirits of our ancestors 
E'en from their marble rest. Yet mark me well ! 
Be secret ! — for along my destined path 
I yet must darkly move. — Now, follow me ; 
And join a bantl of men, in whose high hearts 
There lies a n;ition's strength. 

Raimond My noble father ! 



74 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



Thy words have given uie all for which I pined — 
An aim, a hope, a purpose ! — And the blood 
Doth rush in warmer currents through my veins, 
As a bright fountain from its icy bonds 
By the quick sun-stroke freed. 

Procida. Ay, this is well ! 
Such natures burst men's chains ! — Now, follow me. 

[^Exeiint. 



ACT THE SECOND. 

SCENE I. .APARTMENT IN A PALACE. 

ERnBERT. CONSTANCE. 

Constance. Will you not hear me ? — Oh ! that 
they who need 
Hourly forgiveness, they who do but live, 
While Mercy's voice, beyond th' eternal stars. 
Wins the great Judge to listen, should be thus, 
In their vain exercise of pageant power. 
Hard and relentless ! — Gentle brother, yet, 
'Tis in your choice to imitate that Heaven 
Whose noblest joy is pardon. 

Eribert. 'Tis too late. 
You have a soft and moving voice, which pleads 
With eloquent melody — but they must die. 

Constance. What, die ! — for words 1 — for breath, 
which leaves no trace 
To sully the pure air, wherewith it blends. 
And is, being uttered, gone 1 — Why, 't were enough 
For such' a venial fault, to be deprived 
One little day of man's free lieritage. 
Heaven's warm andsunny light ! — Oh ! if you deem 
That evil harbours in their souls, at least 
Delay the stroke, till guilt, made manifest, 
Shall bid stern justice wake. 

Eribert. I am not one 
Of those weak spirits, that timorously keep watch 
For fair occasions, thence to borrow hues 
Of virtue for their deeds. My school hath been 
Where power sits crowned and armed. — And, 

mark me, sister ! 
To a distrustful nature it might seem 
Strange, that your lips thus earnestly should plead 
For these Sicilian rebels. O'er my being 
Suspicion holds no power. — And yet take note. 
— I have said, and they must die. 

Constance. Have you no fearl 

Eribert. Of what 1 — that heaven should fall '? 

Constance. No ! — but that earth 
Should arm in madness. — Brother! I have seen 
Dark e3'es bent on you, e'en midst festal throngs, 
With such deep hatred settled in their glance. 
My heart hath died within me. 

Eribert. Am I then 
To pause, and doubt, and shrink, because a girl, 
A dreaming girl, hath trembled at a look 1 

Constance. Oh ! looks are no illusions, when the 
soul, 



Which may not speak in words, can find no way 
But theirs, to liberty! — Have not tliese men 
Brave sons, or noble brothers 7 

Eribert. Yes ! whose name 
It rests wirii me to make a word of fear, 
A sound forbidden 'midst the haunts of men. 

Constance. But not forgotten ! — Ah ! beware, 
beware ! 
— Nay, look not sternly on me. — There is one 
Of that devoted band, who yet will need 
Years to be ripe for death. — He is a youth, 
A very boy, on whose unshaded cheek 
The spring-time glow is lingering. 'Twas but 

now 
His mother left mc, with a timid hope 
Just dawning in her breast; — and I — I dared 
To foster its faint spark. — You smile ! — Oh ! then 
He will be saved ! 

Eribert. Nay, I but smiled to think 
What a fonttfool is hope! — She may be taught 
To deem that the.great sun will change his course 
To work her pleasure ; or the tomb give back 
Its inmates to her arms. — In sooth, 'tis strange ! 
Yet, with your pitying heart, you should not thus 
Have mocked the boy's sad mother — I have said, 
You should not thus have mocked her! — Now, 
farewell. [E.vit Eribert. 

Constance. Oh, brother! hard of heart I — for 
deeds like these 
There must be fearful chastening, if on high 
Justice doth hold her state. — And I must tell 
Yon desolate mother that her fair young son 
Is thus to perish ! — Haply the dread tale 
May slay her too ; — for heaven is merciful. 
— 'Twill be a bitter task ! [Exit Constance, 

SCENE II. — A RUINED TOWER SURROUNDED BY 
WOODS. 

PROCIUA. VITTORIA. 

Procida. Thy vassals are prepared then ? 

Vittoria. Yes, they wait 
Thy summons to their task. 

Procida. Keep the flame bright. 
But hidden, till its hour. — Wouldst thou dare, 

lady. 
To join our councils at the night's mid- watch, 
In the lone cavern by the rock-hewn cross 1 

Vittoria. What should I shrink fxomi 

Procida. Oh! the forest paths 
Are dim and wild, e'en when the sunshine streams 
Through their high arches: but when povsrerful 

night 
Comes, with her cloudy phantoms, and her pale 
Uncertain moonbeams, and the hollow sounds 
Of her mysterious winds ; their aspect then 
Is of another and more fearful world ; 
A realm of indistinct and shadowy forms, 



THE VESPERS OF PALERMO. 



75 



Wakening strange thoughts, ahnost too mucli for 

this, 
Our frail terrestrial nature. 

Vittoria. W(:ll I know 
All this, and more. Such scenes have been th' 

al)0ilcs 
Where througli the silcnco of my sou! have passed 
Voices, and visions from the sphere of tlioiic 
That have to die no more ! — Nay, doubt it not ! 
If such unearthly intercourtie hath e'er 
Been granted to our nature, 'tis to hearts 
Whose love is with the dead. Tiiey, they alone, 
Unmaddencd could sustain the fearful joy 
And glory of its trances! — at the hour 
Which makes guilt tremulous, and people's earth 
And air with infinite, viewless multitudes, 
I will be with thee, Procida. 

Procida. Thy presence 
Will kindle nobler thoughts, and, in the souls 
Of suffering and indignant men, arouse 
That which may strengthen our majestic cause 
With yet a deeper power. — Knowcst thou the 
spot? 

Vittoria. Full well. There is no scene so wild 
and lone 
In these dim woods, but 1 have visited 
Its tangled shades. 

Procida. At midnight then we meet. 

[Exit Procida. 

Vittoria. Why should I fearl — Thou wilt be 
with me, thou, 
Th' immortal dream and shadow of my soul, 
Spirit of him I love! that mcetest me still 
In loneliness and silence ; in the noon 
Of the wild night, and in the forest-depths, 
Known but to me; for whom thou givest the winds 
And sighing leaves a cadence of tiiy voice. 
Till my heart faints with tliat o'erthrilling joy! 
— Thou wilt be with me there, and lend my li|)3 
Words, fiery words, to flush dark cheeks with 

shame. 
That thou art unavenged! [Exit Vittoria. 

SCENE III. — A CIUPET,, WITH A MONUMENT, ON 
WHICH IS LAID A SWORD. — MOONLIGHT. 

PROCroA. RAIMOND. MONTALBA. 

Montalha. And know you not my story 1 

Procida. In the lands 
Where I have been a wanderer, your deep wrongs 
Were numbered with our country's; but their tale 
Came only in faint echoes to mine ear. 
I would fain hear it now. « 

Montalba. Hark ! while yoUfSpoke, 
There was a voice-like murmur in the breeze. 
Which even like death came o'er me : — 'twas a 

night 
Like this, of clouds contending with the moon 
A night of sweeping winds, of rustling leaves, 



And swift wild shadows floating o'er the earth, 
Clothed with a phantom-life ; when, after years 
Of battle and captivity, I spurred 
My good steed homewards. — Oh! what lovely 

dreams 
Rose on my spirit ! — There were tears and smiles, 
But all of joy! — And there were bounding steps, 
And clinging arms, whose passionate clasp of love 
Doth twine so fondly round the warrior's neck, 
When his plumed helm is doffed. — Hence, feeble 

thoughts ! 
— I am sterner now, yet once such dreams were 
mine ! 

Raimond. And were they realized'? 

•Montalba. Youth ! Ask me not, 
But li.stcn ! — I drew near my own fair home; 
There was no light along its walls, no sound 
Of bugle jjeaiing fr.im the watch-tower's height 
At my approach, although my trampling steed 
Made the earth ring ; yet the wide gates were 

thrown 
All open. — Then my heart misgave me first, 
And on the threshold of my silent hall 
I paused a moment, and the wind swept by 
With the same deep and dirge-like tone which 

pierced 
My soul e'en now. — I calh^d — my struggling voice 
Gave utterance to my wife's, my children's, names ; 
They answered not — I roused my failing strength, 
And wildly rushed within — And they were there. 

Raijnond. And was all wclll 

Montalba. Ay, well ! — for death is well. 
And they were all at rest ! — I see them yet, 
Pale in their innocent beauty, which had failed 
To stay th' assassin's arm! 

Raiviond. Oh, righteous Heaven! 
Who had done this! 

Montalba. Who! 

Procida. Canst thou question, who? 
Whom hath tlie earth to perpetuate such deeds. 
In the cold blooded revelry of crime. 
But those whose yoke is on xxsl 

Raimond. Man of wo! 
What words hath pity for despair like thine "? 

Montalba. Pity ! fond youth I — My soul disdains 
the grief 
Which doth unbosom its deep secrecies, 
To ask a vain companionship of tears. 
And so to be relieved! 

Procida. For woes like these. 
There is no sympathy but vengeance. 

Montalba. None ! 
Therefore I brought you hither, that your hearts 
Might catch the spirit of the scene ! — Look round 
We are in the awful presence of the dead ; 
Within yon tomb they sleep, whose gentle blood 
Weighs down the murderer's soul. — They sleep! 

—but I 
Am wakeful o'er their dust ! — I laid my sword, 



76 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



Without its sheath, on their sepulchral stone, 
As on an altar ; and th' eternal stars, 
And heaven, and night, bore witness to my vow, 
No more to wield it save in one great cause. 
The vengeance of the grave ! — And now the hour 
Of that atonement conies ! 

[He takes the sword from the tomb. 

Raimond. My spirit burns ! 
And my full heart almost to bursting swells. 
—Oh ! for the day of battle ! 

Procida. Raimond ! they 
Whose souls are dark with guiltless blood must 

die; 
— But not in battle. 

Raimond. How, my father 1 

Procida. No! 
Look on that sepulchre, and it will teach 
Another lesson. — But th' appointed hour 
Advances. — Thou wilt join our chosen band, 
Noble Montalba"? 

Montalba. Leave me for a time. 
That I may calm my soul by intercourse 
With the still dead, before I mix with men, 
And with their passions. I have nursed for years. 
In silence and in solitude, the flame 
Which doth consume me ; and it is not used 
Thus to be looked or breathed on. — Procida ! 
I would be tranquil — or appear so — ere 
I join your brave confederates. Through my heart 
There struck a pang — but it will soon have passed. 

Procida. Remember!— in the cavern by the 
cross. 
Now, follow me, my son. 

[Exeunt Procida and Raimond. 

Montalba {after a pause, leaning on the tomb). 
Said he, "my son?" — Now, why should this man's 

life 
Go down in hope, thus resting on a son, 
And I be desolate '!- How strange a sound 
Was that—" my sonf'—l had a boy, who might 
Have worn as free a soul upon his brow 
As doth this youth.— Why should the thought of 

him. 
Thus haunt mel — when I tread the peopled ways 
Of life again, I shall be passed each hour 
By fathers with their children, and I must 
Learn calmly to look on.— Methinks 'twere now 
A gloomy consolation to behold 
All men bereft, as I am!— But away, 
Vain thoughts !— One task is left for blighted Iiearts, 
And it shall be fulfilled. 

[Exit Montalba. 

SCENE lY. — ENTRANCE OF A CAVE, SDRROTJNDED BY 
ROCKS AND FORESTS. A RUDE CROSS SEEN 
AMONGST THE ROCKS. 

PROCIDA. RAIMOND. 
Procida. And it is thus, beneath the solemn 



Of midnight, and in sohtary caves, 

Where the wild forest-creatures make their lair, — 

Is 't thus the chiefs of Sicily must hold 

The councils of their country'? 

Raimond. Wh}', such scenes 
In their primeval majesty, beheld 
Thus by faint starlight, and the partial glare 
Of the red-streaming lava, will inspire 
Far deeper thoughts than pillared halls, wherein 
Statesmen hold weary vigils. — Are we not 
O'ershadowed by that Etna, which of old 
With its dread prophecies, hath struck dismay 
Through tyrants' hearts, and bade them seek a 

home 
In other climes? — ^Hark! from its depths e'en now 
What hollow moans are sent ! 

Enter MONTALBA, GUIDO, and other Sicilians. 

Procida. Welcome, my brave associates I — We 
can share 
The wolf's wild freedom here ! — Th' oppressor's 

haunt 
Is not 'midst rocks and caves. Are we all met"? 

Sicilians. All, all ! 

Procida. The torch-light, swayed by every gust, 
But dimly shows your features. — Where is he 
Who from his battles had returned to breathe 
Once more, without a corslet, and to meet 
The voices, and the footsteps, and the smiles. 
Blent with his dreams of home 1 — Of that dark tale 
The rest is known to vengeance ! — Art thou here, 
With thy deep wrongs and resolute despair, • 
Childless Montalba? 

Montalba {advancing). He is at thy side. 
Call on that desolate father, in the hour 
When his revenge is nigh. 

Procida. Thou, too, come forth, 
From thine own halls an exile I — Dost thou make 
The mountain-fastnesses thy dwelling still, 
While hostile banners, o'er thy rampart walls, 
Wave their proud blazonry? 

First Sicilian. Even so. I stood 
Last night before my own ancestral towers 
An unknown outcast, while the tempest beat 
On my bare head — what recked it? — There was 

joy 

Within, and revelry; the festive lamps 

Were streaming from each turret, and gay songs, 

r th' stranger's tongue, made mirth. They little 

deemed 
Who heard their melodies !— but there are thoughts 
Best nurtured in the wild; there are dread vows 
Known to the mountain-echoes.— Procida ! 
Call on the outcast when revenge is nigh. 
Procida. I kntw a young Sicilian, one whose 
heart 
Should be all fire. On that most guilty day, 
When, with our martyr'd Conradin, the flower 
Of the land's knighthood perished ; he, of whom 



THE VESPERS OF PALERMO. 



77 



I speak, a weeping boy, whose innocent tears 
Melted a thousand hearts that dared not aid, 
Stood by the scaffold with extended arms, 
CaUing upon his father, whose last look 
Turned full on him its parting agony. 
That fathers blood gushed o'er him !— and the boy 
Then dried his tears, and, with a kindling eye, 
And a proud flush on his young cheek, looked up 
To the bright heaven. — Doth he remember still 
That bitter hour 1 

Second Sicilian. He bears a sheathless sword ! 
— Call on the orphan when revenge is nigh. 

Procida. Our band shows gallantly — but there 
are men 
Who should be with us now, had they not dared 
In some wild moment of festivity 
To give their full hearts way, and breathe a wish 
For Freedom! — and some traitor — it might be 
A breeze perchance — bore the forbidden sound 
To Eribert : — so they must die — unless 
Fate (who at times is wayward) should select 
Some other %ictim first ! — But have they not 
Brothers or sons amongst us. 

Guido. Look on me! 
I have a brother, a young high-souled boy. 
And beautiful as a sculptor's dream, with brow 
That wears, amidst its dark rich curls, the stamp 
Of inborn nobleness. In truth, he is 
A glorious creature I — But his doom is sealed 
With their's of whom you spoke; and I have 

knelt — ' 

— Ay, scorn me not ! "twas for his life — I knell*— 
E'en at the viceroy's feet, and he put on 
That heartless laugh of cold malignity 
We know so well, and spurned me. — But the staui 
Of shame like this, takes blood to wash it off, 
And thus it shall be cancelled ! — Call on me. 
When the stern moment of revenge is nigh. 

Procida. I call upon thee note ! The lands high 
soul 
Is roused, and moving onward, hke a breeze 
Or a swift sunbeam, kindling natures hues 
To deeper hfe before it. In his chains, 
The peasant dreams of freedom ! — ay, 'tis thus 
Oppression fans th' imperishable flame 
With most unconscious hands. — Xo praise be her's 
For what she blindly works ! — When slavery's cup 
O'erflows its bounds, the creeping poison, meant 
To dull our senses, through each burning vein 
Pours fever, lending a delirious strength 
To burst man's fetters — and they shall be burst ! 
I have hoped, when hope seemed frenzy; but a 

power 
Abides in human will, when bent with strong 
Unswening energy on one great aim. 
To make and rule its fortunes ! — I have been 
A wanderer in the fulness of my years, 
A restless pilgrim of the earth and seas, 
Gathering the generous thoughts of other lands, 
15 



I To aid our holy cause. And aid is near: 
j But we must give the signal. Now, before 
The majesty of yon pure Heaven, whose eye 
I Is on our hearts, whose righteous arm befriends 
j The arm that strikes for freedom; speak! decree 
, The fate of our oppressors. 
I Monlalba. Let them fall 

j When dreaming least of peril ! — When the heart, 
I Basking in sunny pleasure, doth forget 
That hate may smile, but sleeps not. — Hide the 

sword 
With a thick veil of myrtle, and in halls 
Of banqueting, where the wine-cup shines 
Red in the festal torch-light ; meet we there. 
And bid them welcome to the feast of death. 
Procida. Thy voice is low and broken, and thy 
words 
Scarce meet our ears. 

Monfalba. Whj', then, I thus repeat 
Their import. Let th' avenging sword burst forth 
In some free festal hour, aind wo to him 
Who first shall spare ! 

Raimond. •'Must innocence and guilt 
Perish alike? 

Monlalba. WTio talks of innocence'? 
When hath their hand been stayed for innocence? 
Let them all perish! — Heaven will choose its own. 
Why should their children live ? — The earthquake 

whelms 
Its undistinguished thousands, making graves 
Of peopled cities in its path — and this 
Is Heaven's dread justice — ay, and it is well! 
Why then should ue be tender, when the skies 
Deal thus with man? — What, if the infant bleed? 
Is there not power to hush the mother's pangs ? 
What, if the youthful bride perchance should fall 
In her triumphant beauty? — Should we pause? 
As if death were not mercy to the pangs 
Which make our lives the records of our foes ! 
Let them all perish! — And if one be found 
Amidst our band, to stay th' avenging steel 
For pity, or remorse, or boyish love, 
Then be lus doom as theirs ! [A pause. 

Why gaze ye thus? 
Brethren, what means your silence 1 

Sicilians. Be it so ! 
If one amongst us stay th' avenging steel 
For love or pity, be his doom as theirs ! 
Pledg^ we our faith to this! 
Raimond {rushing forward indignantly.') Our 
faith to this! 
No ! I but dreamt 1 heard it ! — Can it be ? 
INIy countrymen, my father! — Is it thus 
That freedom should be won? — Awake! Awake 
To loftier thoughts ! — Lift up, exultingly, 
On the crowned heights, and to the sweeping 

winds. 
Your glorious banner ! — Let your trumpet's blast 
Make the tombs thrill with echoes ! Call aloud, 



78 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



Proclaim from all your hills, the land shall bear 
The stranger's yoke no longer ! — What is he 
Who carries on his practised lip a smile, 
Beneath his vest a dagger, which but waits 
Till the heart bounds with joy, to still its beatings 1 
That which our nature's instinct doth recoil from, 
And our blood curdle at — Ay, yours and mine 
A murderer ! — Heard ye 1 — Shall that name with 

ours 
Go down to after days ? — Oh, friends ! a cause 
Like that for which we rise, hath made bright 

names 
Of the elder time as rallying-words to men, 
Sounds full of might and immortality ! 
And shall not ours be such 1 

Montalba. Fond dreamer, peace ! 
Fame! What is fame? — Will our unconscious 

dust 
Start into thrilling rapture from the grave, 
At the vain breath of praise 1 — I tell thee, youth. 
Our souls are parched with agonizing thirst, 
Which must be quenched though death were in 

the draught : 
We must have vengeance, for our foes have left 
JSTo other joy unblighted. 
Procida. Oh! my son. 
The time is past for such high dreams as thine. 
Thou know'st not whom we deal with. Knightly 

faith, 
And chivalrous honour, are but things whereon 
They cast disdainful pity. We must meet 
Falsehood with wiles, and insult with revenge. 
And, for our names — whate'er the deeds, by which 
We burst our bondage — is it not enough 
That in the chronicle of days to come. 
We, through a bright ' For Ever,' shall be called 
The men who saved their country *? 

JRoMnond. Many a land 
HatCT.iowed beneath the yoke, and then arisen, 
As a strong lion rending silken bonds, 
And on the open field before high Heaven, 
Won such majestic vengeance, as hath made 
Its name a power on earth. — Ay, nations own 
It is enough of glory to be called 
The children of the mighty, who redeemed 
Their native soil — but not by means like these. 
Montalba. I have no children. — Of Montalba's 
blood 
Not one red drop doth circle through the veins 
Of aught that breathes! — Why, what have /to do 
With far futurity 1 — My spirit lives 
But in the past. — Away ! when thou dost stand 
On this fair earth, as doth a blasted tree 
Which the warm sun revives not, then return 
Strong in thy desolation: but till then, 
Thou art not for our purpose ; we have need 
Of more unshrinking hearts. 

Raimond. Montalba, know, 
I shrink from crime alone. Oh! if my voice 



Might yet have power amongst you, I would say, 
Associates, leaders, be avenged ! but yet 
As knights, as warriors ! 

Montalba. Peace! have we not borne 
Th' indelible taint of contumely and chains'? 
We are not knights and warriors. — Our bright 

crests 
Have been defiled and trampled to the earth. 
Boy! we, are slaves — and our revenge shall be 
Deep as a slave's disgrace. 

Raimond. Why, then farewell : 
I leave you to your counsels. He that still 
Would hold his lofty nature undebased. 
And his name pure, were but a loiterer here. 
Procida. And is it thus indeed? — dost thov, 
forsake 
Our cause, my son ? 

Raimond. Oh, father! what proud hopes 
This hour hath blighted! — yet whate'er betide, 
It is a noble privilege to look up 
Fearless in heaven's bright face — and this is mine, 
And shall be still. — [Exit Raimond. 

Procida. He's gone ! — Why, let it be ! 
I trust our Sicily hath many a son 
Valiant as mine. — Associates ! — 'tis decreed 
Our foes shall perish. We have but to name 
The hour, the scene, the signal. 

Montalba. It should be 
In the full city, when some festival 
Hath gathered throngs, and lulled infatuate hearts 
To brief security. Hark ! is there not 
A sound of hurrying footsteps on the breeze? 
We are betrayed. — Who art thou ■? 
MTTORIA enters. 
Procida. One alone 
Should be thus daring. Lady, lift the veil 
That shades thy noble brow. 

{^Shc raises her veil, the Sicilians draw back 
with respect.) 
Sicilians. Th' affianced bride 
Of our lost King ! 

Procida. And more, Montalba ; know 
Within this form there dwells a soul as high, 
As warriors in their battles e'er have proved. 
Or patriots on the scaffold. 
Vittoria. Valiant men ! 
I come to ask your aid. Ye see me, one 
Whose widowed youth hath all been consecrate 
To a proud sorrow, and whose life is held 
In token and memorial of the dead. 
Say, is it meet that, lingering thus on earth. 
But to behold one great atonement made. 
And keep one name from fading in men's hearts, 
A tyrant's will should force me to profane 
Heaven's altar with unhallowed vows — and live 
Stung by the keen unutterable scorn 
Of my own bosom, live — another's bride 1 

Sicilians. Never, oh never ! — fear not, noble lady ! 
Worthy of Conradin ! 



THE VESPERS OF PALERMO. 



Vittoria. Yet hear me still. 
His bride, that Eribert's, who notes our tears 
With his insulting eye of cold derision, 
And, could he pierce the depths where feeling works, 
Would number e'en our agonies as crimes. 
— Say, is this meet 1 

Guido. We deemed these nuptials, lady, 
Thy willing choice ; but 'tis a joy to find 
Thou art noble still. Fear not ; by all our wrongs 
This shall not be. 

Procida. Vittoria, thou art come 
To ask our aid, but we have need of thine. 
Know, the completion of our high designs 
Requires — a festival ; and it must be 
Thy bridal ! 

Vittoria. Procida! 

Procida. Nay, start not thus. 
'Tis no hard task to bind your raven hair 
With festal garlands, and to bid the song 
Rise, and the wine-cup mantle. No — nor yet 
To meet your suitor at the glittering shrine, 
Where death, not love, awaits him ! 

Vittoria. Can my soul 
Dissemble thus? 

Procida. We have no other means 
Of winning our great birthright back from those 
Who have usurped it, than so lulling them 
Into vain confidence, that they may deem 
All wrongs forgot ; and this may best be done 
By what I ask of thee. 

Montalba. Then will we mix 
With the flushed revelers, making their gay feast 
The harvest of the grave. 

Vittoria. A bridal day ! 
— Must it be so 1 — Then, chiefs of Sicily, 
1 bid you to my nuptials ! but be there 
With your bright swords unsheathed, for thu^June 
My guests should be adorned. 

Procida. And let thy banquet 
Be soon announced, for there are noble men 
Sentenced to die, for whom we fain would purchase 
Reprieve with other blood. 

Vittoria. Be it then the day 
Preceding that appointed for their doom. 

Guido. My brother, thou shalt live! — Oppres- 
sion boasts 
No gift of prophecy ! — It but remains 
To name our signal, chiefs ! 

Montalba. The Vesper-bell. 

Procida. Even so, the Vesper-bell, whose deep- 
toned peal 
Is heard o'er land and wave. Part of our band, 
Wearing the guise of antic revelry. 
Shall enter, as in some fantastic pageant, 
The halls of Eribert ; and at the hour 
Devoted to the sword's tremendous task, 
I follow with the rest. — The Vesper-bell ! 
That sound shall wake th' avenger ; for 'tis come, 
The time when power is m a voice, a breath, 



To burst the spell which bound us. But the night 
Is waning, with her stars, which, one by one. 
Warn us to part. Friends, to your homes ! — your 

homes 7 
That name is yet to win. — Away, prepare 
For our next meeting in Palermo's walls. 
The Vesper-bell ! Remember ! 

Sicilians. Fear us not. 
The Vesper-bell ! [Exeunt omncs. 



ACT THE THIRD. 

SCENE I. APARTMENT IN A PALACE, 

ERIBEKT. VITTORIA. 

Vittoria. Speak not of love — it is a word with 

deep. 
Strange rnagic in its melancholy sound, 
To summon up the dead ; and they should rest, 
At such an hour, forgotten. There are things 
We must throw from us, wheft the heart would 

gather 
Strength to fulfil its settled purposes : 
Therefore, no more of love ! — But, if to robe 
This form in bridal ornaments, to smile, 
(I can smile yet,) at thy gay feast, and stand 
At th' altar by thy side ; if this be deemed 
Enough, it shall be done. 

Eribert. My fortune's star 
Doth rule th' ascendant still ! {Apart.") — If not of 

love, 
Then pardon, lady, that I speak of joy, 

And with exulting heart 

Vittoria. There is no joy ! 
— Who shall look through the far futurity, 
And, as the shadowy visions of events 
Develope on his gaze, 'midst their dim throng, 
Dare, with oracular mien, to point, and say, 
" This will bring happiness T' — Who shall do this? 
— Who, thou, and I, and all ! — There's One, who 

sits 
In his own bright tranquillity enthroned. 
High o'er all storms, and looking far beyond 
Their thickest clouds ; but we, from whose dull 

eyes 
A grain of dust hides the great sun, e'en v>c 
Usurp his attributes, and talk, as seers. 
Of future joy and grief! 

Eribert. Thy words are strange. 
Yet will I hope that peace at length shall settle 
Upon thy troubled heart, and add soft grace 
To thy majestic beauty. — Fair Vittoria ! 

Oh ! if my cares 

Vittoria. I know a day shall come 
Of peace to all. Ev'n from my darkened spirit 
Soon shall each restless wish be exorcised. 
Which haunts it now, and I shall then lie down 
Serenely to repose. Of this no jnore. 
— I have a boon to ask. 



80 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



Eribert. Command my power, 
And deem it thus most honoured. 

Vittoria. Have I then 
Soared such an eagle-pitch, as to command 
The mighty Eribert 1 — And yet 'tis meet ; 
For I bethink me now, I should have worn 
A crown upon this forehead. — Generous lord ! 
Since thus you give me freedom, know there is 
An hour I have loved from childhood, and a sound. 
Whose tones, o'er earth and ocean sweetly bearing 
A sense of deep repose, have lulled me oft 
To peace — which is forgetfulness : I mean 
The Vesper-bell. I pray you, let it be 
The summons to our bridal — Hear you not? 
To our fair bridal ! 

Eribert. Lady, let 3^our will 
Appoint each circumstance. I am but too blessed 
Proving my homage thus. 

Vittoria. Why, then, 'tis mine 
To rule the glorious fortunes of the day, 
And I may be content. Yet much remains 
For thought to brood on, and I would be left 
Alone with my resolves. Kind Eribert ! 
(Whom I command so absolutely,) now 
Part we a few brief hours ; and doubt not, when 
I am at thy side once more, but I shall stand 
There — to the last. 

Eribert. Your smiles are troubled, lady; 
May they ere long be brighter! — Time will seem 
Slow till the Vesper-bell. 

Vittoria. 'Tis lovers' phrase 
To say — Time lags ; and therefore meet for you : 
But with an equal pace the hours move on. 
Whether they bear, on their swift silent wing. 
Pleasure or — fate. 

Eribert. Be not so full of thought 
On such a day. — Behold, the skies themselves 
Look on my joy with a triumphant smile, 
Unshadowed by a cloud. ' 

Vittoria. 'Tis very meet 
That Heaven (which loves the just) should wear 

a smile 
In honour of his fortunes. — Now, my lord, 
Forgive me if I say, farewell, until 
Th' appointed hour. 

Eribert. Lady, a brief farewell. 

[Exeunt separately. 

SCENE II. — THE SEA-SHORE. 

PROCIDA. RAEMOND. 

Procida. And dost thou still refuse to share the 
_ glory 
Of this, our daring enterprise 1 

Raimond. Oh, father ! 
I too have dreamt of glory, and the word 
Hath to my soul been as a trumpet's voice, 
Making my nature sleepless. — But the deeds 
Whereby 'twas won, the high exploits, whose tale 



Bids the heart burn, were of another cast 
Than such as thou requirest, 

Procida. Every deed 
Hath sanctity, if bearing for its aim 
The Freedom of our country; and the sword 
Alike is honoured in the patriot's hand. 
Searching, 'midst warrior-hosts, the heart which 

gave 
Oppression birth; or flashing through the gloom 
Of the still chamber, o'er its troubled couch, 
At dead of night. 
Raimond {turning away). There is no path but 
one 
For noble natures 

Procida. Wouldst thou ask the man 
Who to the earth hath dashed a nation's chains, 
Rent as with Heaven's own lightning, by what 

means 
The glorious end was wonl — Go, swell th' ac- 
claim ! 
Bid the deliverer hail ! and if his path 
To that most bright and sovereign destiny 
Hath led o'er trampled thousands, be it called 
A stern necessity, and not a crime ! 
Raimond. Father! my soul yet kindles at the 
thought 
Of nobler lessons, in my boyhood learned 
Even from thy voice. — The high remembrances 
Of other days are stirring in the heart 
Where thou didst plant them; and they speak of 

men 
Who needed no vain sophistry to gild 
Acts, that would bear Heaven's light. — And such 

be mine ! 
Oh, father ! is it yet too late to draw 
The praise and blessing of all valiant hearts 
On%\jr most righteous cause 1 

Procida. What wouldst thou do 7 • 
Raimond. I would go forth, and rouse th' in- 
dignant land 
To generous combat. Why should Freedom strike 
Mantled with darkness 1 — Is there not more 

strength 

E'en in the waving of her single arm 
Than hosts can wield against her ? — I would rouse 
That spirit, whose fire doth press resistless on 
To its proud sphere the stormy field of fight ! 
Procida. Ay ! and give time and warning to the 
foe 
To gather all his might ! — It is too late. 
There is a work to be this eve begun. 
When rings the Vesper-bell ; and, long before 
To morrow's sun hath reached i' th' noonday hea- 
ven 

His throne of burning glory, every sound 
Of the Provenfal tongue within our walls. 
As by one thunderstroke— (you are pale, my 

son) — 
Shall be for ever silenced. 



THE VESPERS OP PALERMO. 



81 



Raimond. What ! such sounds 
As falter on the Up of infancy 
In its imperfect utterance 1 or are breathed 
By the fond mother, as she lulls her babe 1 
Or in sweet hymns, upon the twilight air 
Poured by the timid maid? — Must all alike 
Be stilled in death; and wouldst thou tell my 

heart 
There is no crime in this? 

Procida. Since thou dost feel 
Such horror of our purpose, in thy power 
Are means that might avert it. 

Raimond. Speak! Oh speak! 

Procida. How would these rescued thousands 
bless thy name, 
Shouldst thou betray us ! 

Raimond. Father I — I can bear — 
Ay, proudly woo — the keenest questioning 
Of thy soul gifted eye; which almost seems 
To claim a part of Heaven's dread royalty, 
— The power that searches thought ! 

Procida (after a patise). Thou hast a brow 
Clear as the day — and yet I doubt thee, Raimond ! 
Whether it be that I have learned distrust 
From a long look through man's deep-folded heart ; 
Whether my paths have been so seldom crossed 
By honour and fair mercy, that they seem 
But beautiful deceptions, meeting thus 
My unaccustomed gaze ; — howe'er it be — 
I doubt thee ! — See thou waver not — take heed ! 
Time lifts the veil from all things I 

[Exit Procida. 

Raimond. And 'tis thus 
Youth fades from ofl'our .spirit; and the robes 
Of beauty and of majesty, wherewith 
We clothed our idols, drop ! — Oh I bitter day. 
When, at the crushing of our glorious world, 
We start, and find men tlius! — Yet be it so! 
Is not my soul still powerful, in itself 
To realize its dreams'? — Ay, shrinking not 
From the pure eye of Heaven, my brow may well 
Undaunted meet my father's. — But, away ! 
Thou shalt be saved, sweet Constance ! — Love is 

yet 
Mightier than vengeance. [Exit Raimond. 

SCENE III. G.IRDEXS OP A PALACE. 

CONSTANCE, alone. 
Constance. There was a time when my thoughts 
wandered not 
Beyond these fairy scenes ! when, but to catch 
The languid fragrance of the southern breeze 
From the rich-flowering citrons, or to rest, 
Dreaminf of some wild legend, in the shade 
Of the dark laurel-foliage, was enough 
Of happiness. — How have these calm delights 
Fled from before one passion, as the dews. 
The delicate gems of morning, are exhaled 
By the great sun ! 



{Raimond enters.) 
Raimond ! oh ! now thou 'rt come, 
I read it in thy look, to say farewell 
For the last tirae^the last ! 

Raimond. No, best beloved ! 
I come to tell thee there is now no power 
To part us — but in death. 

Constance. I have dreamt of joy, 
But never aught like this. — Speak yet again ! 
Say, we shall part no more ! 

Raimond. No more, if love 
Can strive with darker spirits, and he is strong 
In his immortal nature ! all is changed 
Since last we met. My father — keep the tale 
Secret from all, and most of all, my Constance, 
From Eribert — my father is returned : 
I leave thee not. 

Constance. Thy father ! blessed sound ! 
Good angels be his guard ! — Oh ! if he knew 
How my soul clings to thine, he could not hato 
Even a Proven(;al maid 1 — Thy father 1 — now 
Thy soul will be at peace, and I shall see 
The sunny happiness of earlier days 
Look from thy brow once more ! — But how is thisl 
Thine eye reflects not the glad soul of mine ; 
And in thy look is that which ill befits 
A tale of joy. 

Raimond. A dream is on my soul. 
I see a slumbcrcr, crov^'ned with flowers, and smil- 
ing 
As in delighted visions, on the brink 
Of a dread chasm ; and tiiis strange phantasy 
Hath cast so deep a shadow o'er my thoughts, 
I can not but be sad. 

Constance. Why, let me sing 
One of the sweet wild strauis you love so well. 
And this will bairish it. 

Raimond. It may not be. 
Oh ! gentle Constance, go not forth to-day: 
Such dreams are ominous. 

Constance. Have you then forgot 
My brother's nuptial feast 1 — I must be one 
Of the gay train attending to the shrine 
His stately bride. In sooth, my step of joy 
Will print earth lightly now. — What fear'st thou, 

lovel 
Look all around ! thc^blue transparent skies, 
And sun-beams pouring a more buoyant life 
Through each glad thrilhng vein, will brightly 

chase 
All thought of evil. — Why, the very air 
Breathes of delight! — Through all its glowing 

realms 
Doth music blend with fragrance, and e'en here 
The city's voice of jubilee is heard, 
Till each light leaf seems trembling unto sounds 
Of human joy ! 

Raimond. There lie far deeper things, — 
Things, that may darken thought for life, beneath 



83 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



That city's festive semblance.— 1 have passed 
Through the glad multitudes, and I have marked 
A stern intelligence in meeting eves, 
Which deemed their Hash unnoticed, and a quick, 
Suspicious vigilance, too intent to clothe 
Its mien with carelessness ; and, now and then, 
A hurrying start, a whisper, or a hand 
Pointing by stealth to some one, singled out 
Amidst the reckless throng. O'er all is spread 
A mantling flush of revelry, which may hide 
Much Irora unpractised eyes ; but lighter signs 
Have been prophetic oil. 

Conslance. I tremble ! — Raimond I 
What may these things portend ? 

Halmovd. It was a day 
Of festival, like this; the city sent 
TJp through her sunny iirinament a voice 
Joyous as now; when, scarcely heralded 
By one deep moan, forth from his cavernous deptlis 
The earthquake burst; and the wide splendid 

scene 
Became one chaos of all fearful things, 
Till the brain whirled, partaldng the sick motion 
Of rocking palaces. 

Cons/ancc. And then didst thou, 
My noble Raimond ! through the dreadful paths 
Laid open by destruction, past the chasms. 
Whose fathomless cletls, a moment's work, had 

given 
One burial unto thousands, rush to save 
Thy trembling Constance ! she who lives to bless 
Thy generous love, that still the breath of Heaven 
Warts gladness to her soul ! 

Raivio7id. Heaven! — Heaven is just! 
And being so, must guard thee, sweet one, still. 
Trust none beside. — Oh! the omnipotent skies 
Make their wrath manifest, but insidious 7na?i 
Doth compass those he hates with secret snares. 
Wherein lies late. Know, danger walks abroad, 
Masked as a reveller. Constance ! oh ! by all 
Our tried alfection, all the vows which bind 
Our hearts together, meet me in these bowers, 
Here, I adjure thee, meet me, when the bell 
Doth sound lor vesper-praver ! 

Constance. And know'st thou not 
'Twill be the bridal hour? 

Raimond. It will not, l^'e ! 
That hour will bring no bridal !— Nought of this 
To human ear; but speed thou hither, tly, 
When evening brings that signal. — Dost thou 

heed ? 
This is no meeting, by a lover souglit 
To breathe fond tales, and make the twilight groves 
And stars attest his vows ; deem thou not so. 
Therefore denying it ! — I tell thee, Constance ! 
If thou wouldst save me from such lierce despair 
As falls on man, beholding all he loves 
Perish btiore him, while his strength can but 
Strive with his agony — fhou 'It meet me then? 



Look on me, love ! — I am not oft so moved 
Thou 'It meet me? 

Constance. Oh! what mean thy words?— If 
then 
My steps are free, — I will. Be thou but calm. 
Raimond. Be calm ! — there is a cold and sullen 
calm, 
And, were my wild fears made realities, 
It might be mine; but, in this dread suspense, 
This conflict of all terrible phantasies, 
There is no calm. — Yet fear thou not, dear love ! 
I will watch o'er thee still. And now, farewell 
Until that hour ! 

Constance. My Raimond, fare thee well. 

[E.Teunt. 

SCENE IV. — ROOM IN THE CITADEL OF PALERMO. 
ALBERTI. BE COUCI. 
Pe Couci. Said'st thou this night? 
Alberti. This very night — and lo ! 
E'en now the sun declines. 

Dc Coxici. What ! are they armed ? 

Alberti. All armed and strong in vengeance 

and despair. 
De Couci. Doubtfulandstrange the tale! Why 
was not this 
Revealed before ? 

Alberti. Mistrust me not, my lord! 
That stern and jealous Procidahath kept 
O'er all my steps, (as though he did suspect 
The purposes, wliich oft his eye hath sought 
To read in mine,) a watch so vigilant, 
I knew not how to warn thee, though for this 
Alone I mingled with his bands, to learn 
Their projects and their strength. Thou know'st 

my faith 
To Anjou's house full well. 

De Couci. How may we now 
Avert the gathering storm? — The viceroy holds 
His bridal feast, and all is revelry. 
— 'Twas a true-boding heaviness of heart 
Which kept me from these nuptials. 

Alberti. Thou thyself 
Mayst yet escape, and, haply of thy bands 
Rescue a part, ere long to wreak full vengeance 
Upon these rebels. 'Tis too late to dream 
Of saving Eribert. E'en shouldst thou rush 
Before him with the tidings, in his pride 
And confidence of soul, he would but laugh 
Thy tale to scorn. 

De Couci. He must not die unwarned, 
Though it be all in vain. But thou, Alberti, 
Rejoin thy comrades, lest thine absence wake 
Suspicion in their hearts. Thou hast done well, 
And shalt not pass unguerdoned, should I live 
Through the deep horrors of th' approacliing night. 
Alberti. Noble De Couci, trust me still. Anjou 
Commands no heart more faithful than Alberti's. 

[Exit Alberti. 



THE VESPERS OF PALERMO. 



83 



De Couci. The i^rovclling slave ! — And yet he 

Hfxjkc U)() Inje! 
For EriUrt, in blind elated joy, 
"Will w;orn the warning voice. — The day wanes 

fast, 
And tfirough the city, recklewly di»j>er»ed, 
Unarrnr;*! and unprepared, my HoldierH revel, 
E'en on t^ie brink of late. — i rnu«t away. 

[Exit De Cou/n. 

SCENE V. — A BANaneTIXr; HALL. 

PROVENCAL NOBLE.S ajmrnihUal 
I 

First .Xoble. Joy be to this fair meeting! — 
"Who hath seen 
The viceroy'8 bride 1 

Secf/nd Sohle. I eaw her, sm she passed 
The gazing throngs assemble*] in the city. 
*Tis said she hath not left for years, till now. 
Her castle's woo<l-girt solitude. 'Twill gall 
These proud Sicilians, thjU her wide domains 
Should be the conquerors guerdon. 

7'hird Sohle. 'Twas their boast 
With what fond faith she worshipi>e<J still the 

name 
Of the boy, Conradin. How will the slave* 
Brook thu new triumph of their lords ? 

Second NobLe. In sooth 
It stings them to the quick. In the full aln-cU; 
They mir with our Provencals, and assume 
A guise of mirth, but it sits hardly on them. 
'Twere worth a thousand festivals, to see 
With what a bitter and unnatural effort 
They strive to smile ! 

firift Noble. Is this Vittoria fair? 

Secfjnd yohle. Of a most noble mien ; but yet 
her beauty 
Is wild and awful, and her large dark eye, 
In its unsettled glances, hath strange power, 
From which thou 'It shrink, as I did. 

Firht Soble. Hush! they come. 

Eriier EHIIBERT, VITTORIA, CON.STANCE, and oihen. 

Eribert. Welcome, my noble friends! — there 
must not lower 
One clouded brow today in Sicily ! 
Behold my bride ! 

Sobles. Receive our homage, lady ! 

VUtoria. I bid all welcome. May the feast we 
offer 
Prove worthy of such guests ! 

Eribert. Look on her. friends 
And say, if that majestic brow is not 
Meet for a diadem 1 

Vittoria. 'Tis well, my lord ! 
When memory's pictures fade, 'tis kindly done 
To brighten their dimmed hues ! 

First Soble {■apart). Marked you her glance? 



Second Noble (apart). What eUxjuent scorn 
was there ! yet lie, th'" elate 
Of hi/;art, (>erceive» it not. 

Eribert. Now to the feaut ! 
Constana;, you Ifxjk not joyous. I have said 
That all i-hould smile to-day. 

Coroitance. Fwrgive me, brother! 
The heart is wayward, and its garb of pomp 
At times oppr«,-i>se« it. 

Frifjert. Why, how is this 1 

Cfmjitance. Voices of wo, and j>rayers of agony 
Unto my soul have risen, and left sad sounds 
There echoing still. Yet would I fniu \ie gay, 
Since 'tis your wish. — In truth I sfjould have been 
A village-maid! 

Eritjert. But, lacing as you are, 
Not thus ignobly free, command your looks 
("They may Ije taught obedience) to reflect 
The as[ject of the tiine. 

Vittf/ria. And know, feir maid ! 
That if in this unskilled, you stand alone 
Amidst our c^jurt of pleasure. 

Eribert. To the feast! 
Now let the red wine foam ! — There should be 

mirth 
When conquerors revel I — Lords of this fair isle! 
Your good swords' heritage, crown each bowl, and 

ple<Jge 
The present and the future! for they both 
Look brightly on us. Dost thou smile, my bride? 

VUtoria. Yen, Eribert I — thy prophecies of joy 
Have taught e'en me to smile. 

Eribert. 'Tis well. To-day 
I have won a fair and almost royal bride ; 
Tomorrow — let the bright sun speed his coarse, 
To waft me happiness ! — my proudest foes 
Must die — and then my slumljer shall Ije laid 
On rose-leaves, with no envious fold, to mar 
The luxury of its visions ! — Fair Vittoria, 
Your looks are troubled ! 

Vittoria. It is strange, but oft, 
'Midst festal songs and garlands, o'er my soul 
Death comes, with some dull image ! as you spoke 
Of those whose blood is claimed, I thought for 

thern 
Who, in a darkness thicker than the night 
E'er wove with all her clouds, have pined so long : 
How blessed were the stroke which makes them 

things 
Of that invisible worW, wherein, we trust, 
There is. at least, no bondage ! — But should we 
From such a scene as this, where all earth's joys 
Contend for rnasterj-, and the very sense 
Of life is rapture; should ve pass, I say, 
At once from sTich excitementii to the void 
And nlent gloom of that which doth await us — 
— Were it not dreadful ? 

Eribert. Banish such dark thoughts ! 
They ill beseem the hour. 



84 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



Vittoria. There is no hour 
Of this mysterious world, in joy or wo, 
But they beseem it well ! — Why, what a slight, 
Impalpable bound is that, th' unseen, which severs 
Being from death ! — And who can tell how near 
Its misty brink he stands ? 
First Noble (aside.) What mean her words 1 
Second Noble. There's some dark mystery here. 
Eribert. No more of this ! 
Pour the bright juice which Etna's glowing vines 
Yield to the conquerors ! And let music's voice 
Dispel these ominous dreams ! — Wake, harp and 

song! 
Swell out your triumph ! 

A MESSENGER enters, bearing a letter. 
Messenger. Pardon, my good lord ! 

But this demands 

Eribert. What means thy breathless haste ? 
And that ill-boding mien 1 — Away ! such looks 
Befit not hours like these. 

Messenger. The Lord de Couci 
Bade me bear this, and say, 'tis fraught with tidings 
Of life and death. 

Vittoria {hurriedly). Is this a time for aught 
But revelry 1 — My lord, these dull intrusions 
Mar the bright spirit of the festal scene ! 

Eribert {to the Messenger). Hence! tell the 
Lord de Couci we will talk 
Of life and death to-morrow. 

\Exit Messenger. 
Let there be 
Around me none but joyous looks to-day, 
And strains whose very echoes wake to mirth ! 
{^A band of the conspirators enter, to the sound 
of music, disguised as shepherds, baccha- 
nals, cf'C. 
Eribert. What forms are these 7 — What means 

this antic triumph % 
Vittoria. 'Tis but a rustic pageant, by my vassals 
Prepared to grace our bridal. Will you not 
Hear their wild music 1 Our Sicilian vales 
Have many a sweet and mirthful melody, 
To which the glad heart bounds.— Breathe ye some 

strain 
Meet for the time, ye sons of Sicily ! 

( One of the Masquers sings.) 
The festal eve, o'er earth and sky. 
In her sunset robe, looks bright. 
And the purple hills of Sicily, 

With their vineyards, laugh in light ; 
From the marble cities of her plains 

Glad voices mingling swell ; 
— But with yet more loud and lofty strains. 
They shall hail the Vesper-bell ! 

Oh ! sweet its tones, when the summer breeze 

Their cadence wafts afar, 
To float o'er the blue Sicilian seas, 

As they gleam to the first pale star ! 



The shepherd greets them on his height, 

The hermit in his cell ; 
— But a deeper power shall breathe, to-night, 
In the sound of the Vesper-bell ! 

[ The bell rings. 
Eribert. — It is the hour! — Hark, hark! — my 
bride, our summons I 
The altar is prepared and crowned with flowers 
That wait — 

Vittoria. The victim! 

(A tumult heard without.) 

PROCIDA and MONTALBA enter, with otliera, armed. 

Procida. Strike ! the hour is come !• 
Vittoria. Welcome, avengers, welcome ! Now, 
be strong ! 

(T/ie conspirators throw off" their disguise, 
and rush, with their sivords drawn, upon 
the Provencals. Eribert is wounded, and 
falls. 
Procida. Now hath fate reached thee in thy 
mid career. 
Thou reveller in a nation's agonies 

{The Provencals are driven o^, andpursued 
by the Sicilians.) 
Constance {supporting Eribert). My brother ! 

oh ! my brother I 
Eribert. Have I stood 
A leader in the battle-fields of kings. 
To perish thus at last 1 — Ay, by these pangs. 
And this strange chill, that heavily doth creep 
Like a slow poison, through my curdling veins. 
This should be — death ! — In sooth a dull exchange 
For the gay bridal feast ! 

Voices {iDithout). Remember Conradin ! — spare 

none, spare none ! 
Vittoria {throwing off her bridal wreath and 
ornaments). This is proud freedom. Now 
my soul may cast. 
In generous scorn, her mantle of dissembling 
To earth for ever ! — And it is such joy, 
As if a captive, from his dull, cold cell. 
Might soar at once on chartered wing to range 
The realms of starred infinity ! — Away 1 
Vain mockery of a bridal wreath ! The hour 
For which stern patience ne'er kept watch in vain 
Is come ; and I may give my bursting heart 
Full and indignant scope. — Now, Eribert ! 
Believe in retribution ! What, proud man ! 
Prince, ruler, conqueror ! didst thou deem Heaven 

slept '? 
" Or that the unseen, immortal ministers, 
" Ranging the world, to note e'en purposed crime 
" In burning characters, had laid aside 
" Their everlasting attributes for thee? 
— Oh ! blind security ! — He, in whose dread hand 
The lightnings vibrate, holds them back, until 
The trampler of this goodly earth hath reached 
His pyramid-height of power ; that so his fall 



THE VESPERS OP PALERMO. 



85 



May, with more fearful oracles, make pale 
Man's crowned oppressors ! 

Constance. Oh ! reproach liim not ! 
His soul is trembling on the dizzy brink 
Of that dim world where passion may not enter. 
Leave him in peace. 

Voices {without). Anjou, Anjou ! — De Couci to 
the rescue ! 

Eribcrt {half-raising himself ). My brave Pro- 
vencals ! do ye combat still 1 
And 1, your chief, am here ! — Now, now I feel 
That death indeed is bitter 

Vittoria. Fare thee well ! 
Thine eyes so oft, with their insulting smile. 
Have looked on man's last pangs, thou shouldst, 

by this, 
Be perfect how to die ! {Exit Vittoria. 

RAIMOND enters. 

Raimond. Away, rny Constance! 
Now is the time for flight. Our slaughtering bands 
Are scattered far and wide. A little while 
And thou shalt be in safety. Knowest thou not 
That low sweet vale, where dwells the holy man, 
Anselnio ? He whose hermitage is reared 
'Mid some old temple's ruins'? — Round the spot 
His name hath spread so pure and deep a charm, 
'Tis hallowed as a sanctuary, wherein 
Thou shalt securely bide, till this wild storm 
Have spent its fury. Haste! 

Constance. I will not fly! 
While in his heart there is one throb of life. 
One spark in iiis dim eyes, 1 will not leave 
The brother of my youth to perish thus. 
Without one kindly bosom to sustain 
His dying head. 

Eribcrt. The clouds are darkening round. 
There are strange voices ringing in mine ear 
That summon me — to what? — But I have been 
Used to command ! — Away ! I will not die 
But on the field — [//e dies. 

Constance {kneeling by him). Oh Heaven I be 
merciful, 
As thou art just ! — for he is now where nought 
But mercy can avail him! — It is past ! 

GUIDO enters, with his sword drawn. 

Guido {to Raimond). I've sought thee long — 
Why art thou lingering here? 
Haste, follow me ! — Suspicion with thy name 
Joins that word — Traitor! 

Raimond. Traitor ! G uido 1 

Guido. Yes! 
Hast thou not heard that, with his men-at-arms, 
After vain conflict with a people's wrath, 
De Couci hath escaped ? — And there arc those 
Who murmur that from thee the warning came 
Which saved him from our vengeance. But e'en 

yet 
In the red current of Proven9aI blood 



That doubt may be effaced. Draw thy good 

sword, 
And follow mc! 

Raimond. And thou couldst doubt me, Guido! 
'Tis come to this ! — Away! mistrust me still. 
I will not stain my sword with deeds like thine. 
Thou knowest me not! 

Guido. Raimond di Procida! 
If thou art he whom once I deemed so noble — 
Call me thy friend no more ! [Exit Guido. 

Raimond {after a pav.se). Rise, dearest, rise ! 
Thy duty's task hath nobly been fulfilled, 
E'en in the face of death : but all is o'er. 
And this is now no place where nature's tears 
In quiet sanctity may freely flow. 
— Hark! the wild sounds that wait on fearful deeds 
Are swelling on the winds, as the deep roar 
Of fast-advancing billows; and for thee 
I shame not thus to tremble. — Speed, oh, speed ! 

[Exeunt. 



ACT THE FOURTH. 

GCENE I. — A STREET IN PALERMO. 

PROCIDA enters. 

Procida. How strange and deep a stillness loads 
the air. 
As with the power of midnight ! — Ay, where death 
Hath passed, there should be .silence. — But this 

hush 
Of nature's heart, this breathlessness of all things, 
Doth press on thought too heavily, and the sky, 
With its dark ro])e of purple thunder-clouds 
Brooding in sullen masses, o'er my spirit 
Weighs hke an omen! — Wherefore should this 

be? 
Is not our task achieved, the mighty work 
Of our deliverance ? — Yes ; I should be joyous : 
But this our feeble nature, with its quick 
Instinctive superstitions, will drag down 
Th' ascending soul. — And I have fearful boding.s 
That treachery lurks among.st us. — Raimond! 

Raimond ! 
Oh ! Guilt ne'er made a mien like his its garb! 
It can not be ! 

MONTALBA, GUIDO, and otlier Sicilians, enter. 

Procida. Welcome! we meet in joy! 
Now may we bear ourselves erect, resuming 
The kingly port of freemen ! Who shall dare, 
After this proof of slavery's dread recoil. 
To weave us chains again? — Ye have done well. 

Montalba. We have done well. There need no 
choral song, 
No shouting multitudes to blazon forth 
Our stern exploits, — The silence of our foes 
Doth vouch enough, and they are laid to rest 



86 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



Deep as the sword could make it. Yet our task 
)s still but half achieved, since, with his bands, 
De Couci hath escaped, and doubtless, leads 
Their footsteps to Messina, where our foes 
Will gather all their strength. Determined hearts, 
And deeds to startle earth, are yet required, 
To make the mighty sacrifice complete. — 
Where is thy son ? 

Procida. I know not. Once last night 
He crossed my path, and with one stroke beat down 
A sword just raised to smite me, and restored 
My own, which in that deadly strife had been 
Wrenched from my grasp: but when I would 

have pressed him 
To my exulting bosom, he drew back, 
And with a sad, and yet a scornful, smile, 
Full of strange meaning, left me. Since that hour 
I have not seen him. Wherefore didst thou askl 

Montalha. It matters not. We have deeper 
things to speak of — 
Knowest thou that we have traitors in our coun- 
cils 1 

Procida. I know some voice in secret must have 

warned 

De Couci ; or his scattered bands had ne'er 

So soon been marshalled, and in close array 

Led hence as from the field. Hast thou heard 

aught 
That may develope this 1 

Montalba. The guards we set 
To watch the city-gates have seized, this morn, 
One whose quick fearful glance, and hurried step 
Betrayed his guilty purpose. Mark! he bore 
(Amidst the tumult deeming that his flight 
Might all unnoticed pass) these scrolls to him, 
The fugitive Provencal. Read and judge ! 

Procida. Where is this messenger "? 

Montalba. Where should he be 1 — 
They slew him in their wrath. 

Procida. Unwisely done ! 
Give me the scrolls. [He reads. 

Now, if there he such things 
As may to death add sharpness, yet delay 
The pang which gives release ; if tiiere be power 
In execration, to call down the fires 
Of yon avenging Heaven, whose rapid shafts 
But for such guilt were aimless ; be they heaped 
Upon the traitor's head ! — Scorn make his name 
Her mark for ever ! 

Montalba. In our passionate blindness, 
We send forth curses, whose deep stings recoil 
Oft on ourselves. 

Procida. Whate'er fate hath of ruin 
Fall on his house ! — What ! to resign again 
That freedom for whose sake our souls have now 
Engrained themselves in blood ! — Why, who is he 
That hath devised this treachery 1 — To the scroll 
Why fixed he not his name, so stamping it 
With an immortal infamy, whose brand 



Miglit warn men from himi — Who should be so 

vilel 
Albcrti? — In his eye is that which ever 
Shriidcs from encountering mine! — But no! his 

race 
Is of the noblest — Oh ! he could not shame 
That high descent !—Urbino?—Conti? — No! 
They too are deeply pledged. — There 's one name 

more ! 
— I can not utter it ! — Now shall I read 
Each face with cold suspicion, which doth blot 
From man's high mien its native royalty, 
And seal his noble forehead with the impress 
Of its own vile imaginings ! — Speak your thoughts, 
Montalba ! Guido ! — Who should this man bel 
Montalba. Why, what Sicilian youth unsheathed 
last night 
His sword to aid our foes, and turned its edge 
Against his country's chiefs — He that did this, 
May well be deemed for guiltier treason ripe, 
Procida. And who is he 1 
Montalba. Nay, ask thy son. 
Procida. My son ! 
AVhat should he know of such a recreant heart? 
Speak, Guido ! thou 'rt his friend ! 

Guido. I would not wear 
The brand of such a name ! 

Procida. How ! what means this? 
A flash of light breaks in upon my soul ! 
Is it to blast me ? — Yet the fearful doubt 
Hath crept in darkness through my thoughts be- 
fore. 
And been flung from them. — Silence !-^Speak not 

yet! 
I would be calm, and meet the thunder-burst 
With a strong heart. [A pause. 

Now, what have I to hear? 
Your tidings ? 

Guido. Briefly, 't was your son did thus ; 
He hath disgraced your name. 
Procida. My son did thus I 
Are thy words oracles, that I should search 
Their hidden meaning out ? — What did my son? 
I have forgot the tale. — Repeat it, quick ! 

Guido. 'Twill burst upon thee all too soon. 
While we 
Were busy at the dark and solemn rites 
Of retribution ; while we bathed the earth 
In red libations, which will consecrate 
The soil they mingled with to freedom's step 
Through the long march of ages ; 'twas his task 
To shield from danger a Provenjal maid. 
Sister of him whose cold oppression stung 
Our hearts to madness. 

Montalba. What I should she be spared 
To keep that name from perishing on earth? 
— I crossed them in their path, and raised my sword 
To smite her in her champion's arms. — We 
fought — 



THE VESPERS OP PALERMO. 



87 



The boy disarmed me! — And I live to tell 
My shame, and wreak my vengeance ! 

Guido. Who but he 
Could wara Dc Couci, or devise the guilt 
These scrolls reveal? — Hath not the traitor still 
Sought, with his fair and specious eloquence, 
To win us from our purjwse 1 — All things seem 
Leagued to unmask him. 

Montalba. Know you not there came 
E'en in the banquet's hour, from this De Couci, 
One, bearing unto Eribert the tidings 
Of all our purposed deeds'? — And have we not 
Proof, as the noon-day clear, that Raimond loves 
The sister of that tyrant 1 

Procida. There was one 
Who mourned for being childless I — -Let him now 
Fea-st o'er his children's graves, and I will join 
The revelry ! 
Montalba {apart). You shall be childless too ! 
Procida. Was 't you, Montalba? — Now rejoice! 
I say. 
There is no name so near you that its stains 
Should call the fevered and indignant blood 
To your dark check ! — But I will dash to earth 
The weight that presses on my heart, and then 
Be glad as thou art. 

Montalba. What means this, my lord? 
Who hath seen gladness on Montalba's mien"? 
Procida. Why, should not all be glad who have 
no sons 
To tarnish their bright name? 

Montalba. I am not used 
To bear with mockery. 

Procida. Friend ! By yon high Heaven, 
I mock thee not ! — 'tis a proud fate, to live I 

Alone and unallied. — Why, what's alone? 
A word whose sense is— free ! — Ay, free from all 
The venomed stings implanted in the heart 
By those it loves. — Oh ! 1 could laugh to think 
O' th' joy that riots in baronial halls. 
When the word comes — " A son is born !" — A son! 
■ — They should say thus — " He that shall knit your 

brow 
To furrows, not of years ; and bid your eye 
duail its proud glance; to tell the earth its 

shame, — 
Is born, and so, rejoice!'' — Then might we feast, 
And know the cause : — Were it not excellent ? 
Montalba. This is all idle. There are deeds to 
do; 
Arouse thee, Procida! 

Procida. Why, am I not 
Calm as immortal Justice? — She can strike, 
And yet be passionless — and thus will I. 
I know thy meaning. — Deeds to do ! — 'tis well. 
They shall be done ere thought on. — Go ye forth ^ 
There is a youth who calls himself my son. 
His name is — Raimond — in his eye is light 
That shows like truth— but be not ye deceived ! 



Bear him in chains before us. We will sit 
To-day in judgment, and the skies shall see 
The strength which girds our nature.— Will not 

this 
Be glorious, brave Montalba?— Linger not, 
Ye tardy messengers! for there are things 
Which ask the speed of storms. 

[Exeunt Guido and others. 
Is not this well ? 
Montalba. 'Tis noble. Keep thy spirit to this 
proud height, 
(Aside) And then — be desolate like me ! — my woes 
Will at the thought grow light. 
Procida. What now remains 
To be prepared ? — There should be solemn pomp 
To grace a day like this. — Ay, breaking hearts 
Require a drapery to conceal their throbs 
From cold inquiring eyes ; and it must be 
Ample and rich, that so their gaze may not 
Explore what lies beneath. 

[Exit Procida. 
Montalba. Now this is well ! 
— I hate this Procida ; for he hath won 
In all our councils that ascendancy 
And mastery o'er bold hearts, which should have 

been 
Mine by a thousand claims. — Had he the strength 
Of wrongs like mine? — No! for that name — hia 

country — 
He strikes — my vengeance hath a deeper fount: 
But there 's dark joy in this ! — And fate hath barred 
My soul from every other. 

[Exit Montalba. 

SCENE II. — A HERMITAGE, SURROUNDED BY THE 
RCIX.S OF AN ANCIENT TEMPLE. 

CONSTANCE. ANSELMO. 

Constance. 'Tis strange he comes not! — Is not 
this the still 
And sultry hour of noon? — He should have been 
Here by the day-break, — Was there not a voice? 
— "No ! 'tis the shrill Cicada, with glad life 
Peopling these marble ruins, as it sports 
Amidst them, in the sun. — Hark! yet again!" 
No! no! — Forgive me, father! that I bring 
Earth's restless griefs and passions to disturb 
The stillness of thy holy solitude; 
My heart js full of care. 

Anselmo. There is no place 
So hallowed, as to be unvisited 
By mortal cares. Nay, whither should we go, 
With our deep griefs and passions, but to scenes 
Lonely and still ; where he that made our hearts 
Will speak to them in whispers? I have known 
Affliction too, my daughter. 

Constance. Hark ! his step ! 
I know it well — he comes — my Raimond, wel- 
come! 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



VIITORIA entei-s, CONSTANCE shrinlcs back on perceiv- 
ing her. 

Oh Heaven! that aspect tells a fearful tale. 

Vittoria (not observing her). There is a cloud 
of horror on my soul; 
And on thy words, Anselmo, peace doth wait, 
Even as an echo, following the sweet close 
Of some divine and solemn harmony: 
Therefore I sought thee now. Oh ! speak to me 
Of holy things, and names, in whose deep sound 
Is power to hid the tempests of the heart 
Sink, like a storm rebuked. 

Anselmo. What recent grief 
Darkens thy spirit thus 1 

Vittoria. I said not grief 
We should rejoice to-day, but joy is not 
That which it hath been. In the flowers which 

wreathe 
Its mantling cup there is a scent unknown. 
Fraught with some strange delirium. All things 

now 
Have changed their nature; still, I say, rejoice! 
There is a cause, Anselmo! — We are free, 
Free and avenged! — Yet on my soul there hangs 
A darkness, heavy as th' oppressive gloom 
Of midnight phantasies. — Ay, for this, too. 
There is a cause. 

Anselmo. How say'st thou, we are free? 
There may have raged, within Palermo's walls, 
Some brief wild tumult, but too well I know 
They call the stranger, lord. 

Vittoria. Who calls the dead 
Conqueror or lord 1 — Hush ! breathe it not aloud, 
The wild winds must not hear it ! — Yet, again, 
[ tell thee, we are free ! 

Ansehno. Thine eye hath looked 
On fearful deeds, for still their shadows hang 
O'er its dark orb. — Speak! I adjure thee, say, 
How hath this work been wrought? 

Vittoria. Peace ! ask me not ! 
Why shouldst thou hear a tale to send thy blood 
Back on its fount 1 — We can not wake them now ! 
The storm is in my soul, but theij are all 
At rest I — Ay, sweetly may the slaughtered babe 
By its dead mother sleep ; and warlike men 
Who 'midst the slain have slumbered oft before. 
Making the shield their pillow, may repose 
Well, now their toils are done. — Is 't not enough 1 
Constance. Merciful Heaven ! have such things 
been? And yet 
There is no shade come o'er the laugliing sky ! 
— I am an outcast now. 

Anselmo. O Thou, whose ways 
Clouds mantle fearfully; of all the blind, 
But terrible, ministers that work thy wrath. 
How much is man the fiercest! — Others know 
Their limits — Yes! the earthquakes, and the 

storms, 
And the volcanoes! — He alone o'erleaps 



The bounds of retribution ! — Couldst thou gaze, 
Vittoria! with thy woman's heart and eye, 
On such dread scenes unmoved? 

Vittoria. Was it for me 
To stay th' avenging sword? — No, though it 

pierced 
My very soul ? — " Hark, hark, what thrilling 

shrieks 
Ring through the air around me! — Canst thou not 
Bid them be hushed? — Oh! look not on me thus ! 
Anselmo. Lady ! thy thoughts lend sternness 
to the looks 
Which are but sad!" — Have all then perished? 

all? 
Was there no mercy 

Vittoria. Mercy ! it hath been 
A word forbidden as th' unhallowed names 
Of evil powers. — Yet one there was who dared 
To own the guilt of pity, and to aid 
The victims ! but in vain. — Of him no more ! 
He is a traitor, and a traitor's death 
Will be his meed. 

Constance (coming forward). Oh Heaven ! — 
his name, his name ! 
Is it — it can not be ! 

Vittoria (starting). Thou here, pale girl ! 
I deemed thee with the dead ! — How hast thou 

'scaped 
The snare !— ^Who saved thee, last of all thy race ? 
Was it not he of whom I spake e'en now, 
Raimond di Procida? 

Constance. It is enough. 
Now the storm breaks upon me, and I sink ! 
Must he too die? 

Vittoria. Is it ev'n so? — Why then, 
Live on — thou hast the arrow at thy heart ! 
" Fix not on me thy sad reproachful eyes," 
I mean not to betray thee. Thou may'st live! 
Why should death bring thee his oblivious balms ? 
He visits but the happy. — Didst thou ask 
If Raimond too must die ? — It is as sure 
As that his blood is on thy head, for thou 
Didst win him to this treason. 
. Constance. " When did man 
Call mercy, treason ? — Take my life, but save 
My noble Raimond ! 

Vittoria. Maiden !" he must die. 
E'en now the youth before his judges stands. 
And they are men who, to the voice of prayer, 
Are as the rock is to the murmured sigh 
Of summer-waves ; ay, though a father sit 
On their tribunal. Bend thou not to me. 
What wouldst thou ? 

CoTistance. Mercy! — Oh! wert thou to plead 
But with a look, e'en yet he might be saved ! 
If thou hast ever loved — 

Vittoria. If I have loved ? 

It is that love forbids me to relent ; 

I am what it hath made me.— O'er my aoul 



THE VP:3PERS OF PALERMO. 



89 



Lightning hath passed, and scared it. Could I 

weep, 
I then might pity — but it will not be. 

Constance. Oh! thou wilt yet relent, for wo- 
man's heart 
Was formed to suffer and to melt. 

Vittoria. Away ! 
Why should I pity thee 7— Thou wilt but prove 
What 1 have known before — and yet I live ! 
Nature is strong, and it may all be borne — 
The sick impatient yearning of the heart 
For that which is not ; and the weary sense 
Of the dull void, wherewith our homes have been 
Circled by death; yes, all things may be borne! 
All, save remorse. — But I will not bow down 
My spirit to that dark power: — there was no 

guilt! 
Anselmo ! wherefore didst thou talk of guilt 1 

Anselmo. Ay, thus doth sensitive conscience 
quicken thought. 
Lending reproachful voices to a breeze 
Keen lightning to a look. 

Vittoria. Leave me in peace! 
Is 't not enough that I should have a sense 
Of things thou canst not see, all wild and dark, 
And of unearthly whispers, haunting me 
With dread suggestions, but that thy cold words, 
Old man, should gall me tool — Must all conspire 
Against me 7 — Oh! thou beautiful spirit ! wont 
To shine upon my dreams with looks of love, 
Where art thou vanished ? — Was it not the thought 
Of thee which urged me to the fearful task, 
And wilt thoiT now forsake me"? — I must seek 
The shadowy woods again, for there, perchance, 
Still may thy voice be in my twilight-paths ; . 
— Here I but meet despair ! [Exit Vittoria. 

Anslemo {to Constance). Despair not thou, 
My daughter ! — he that purifies the heart 
With grief, will lend it strength. 

Constance {endeavouring to rouse herself). Did 
she not say 
That some one was to diel 

Anselmo. I tell thee not 
Thy pangs are vain— for nature will have way. 
Earth must have tears ; yet in a heart like thine, 
Faith may not yield its place. 
. Constance. Have I not heard 
Some fearful tale? — Who said, that there should 

rest 
Blood on my soul? — What blood? — I never bore 
Hatred, kind father, unto aught that breathes ; 
Raimond doth know it well. — Raimond ! — High 

Heaven , 
It bursts upon me now ! — and he must die ! 
For my sake — e'en for mine ! 

Anselmo. Her words were strange, 
And her proud mind seemed half to frenzy 

wrought — 
— Perchance this may not be ! 



Constance. Ic 7nust not be. 
Why do I linger here? [She rises to depart. 

Anselmo. Where wouldst thou go? 

Constance. To give their stern and unrelenting 
hearts 
A victim in his stead. 

Anselmo. Stay ! wouldst thou rush 
On certain death? 

Constance. I may not falter now. 
— Is not the life of woman all bound up 
In her affections? — What hath she to do 
In this l)leak world alone? — It may be well 
For man on his triumphal course to move, 
Uncunibercd by soft bonds ; but loe were born 
For love and grief 

Anselmo. Thou fair and gentle thing, 
Unused to meet a glance which doth not speak 
Of tenderness or homage ! how shouldst thou. 
Bear the hard aspect of unpitying men, 
Or face the king of terrors "^ 

Constance. I'hcre is strength 
Deep bedded in our hearts, of which we reck 
But little, till the shafts of heaven have pierced 
Its fragile dwelling. — Must not earth be rent 
Before her gems are found ? — Oh ! now I feel 
Worthy the generous love which hath not shunned 
To look on death for me ! — My heart hath given 
Birth to as deep a courage, and a faith 
As high in its devotion. 

[Exit Constance. 

Anselmo. She is gone ! 
Is it to perish? — God of mercy! lend 
Power to my voice, that so its prayer may save 
Thi.s pure and lofty creature! — I will follow — 
But her young footstep and heroic heart 
Will bear her to destruction faster far 
Than I can track her path. 

[Exit Anselmo 

SCENE in. — HALL Of A PUBMC BUILDING. 

PROCIDA, MONTALBA, GUIDO, and others, seated as on 
a Tribunal. 

Procida. The morn lowered darkly, but the sun 
hath now, 
With fierce and angry splendour, through the 

clouds 
Burst forth, as if impatient to behold 
This, our high triumph — Lead the prisoner in. 
{Raimond is brought in fettered and guarded.) 
Why, what a bright and fearless brow is here ! 
— Is this man guilty? — Look on him, Montalba! 
Montalba. Be firm. Should justice falter at a 

look? 
Procida. No, thou say'st well. Her eyes are 
filleted. 
Or should be so. Thou, that dost call thyself — 
— But no ! I will not breathe a traitor's name — 
Speak ! thou art arraigned of treason. 
Raimond. I arraign 



90 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS, 



You, before whom I stand, of darker guilt, 
In the bright face of Heaven ; and your own hearts 
Give echo to the charge. Your very looks 
Have ta'en the stamp of crime, and seem to shrink, 
With a perturbed and haggard wildness, back 
From the too-searching light. — Why, what hath 

wrought 
This change on noble brows 1 — There is a voice, 
With a deep answer, rising from the blood 
Your hands have coldly shed ! — Ye are of those 
From whom just men recoil, with curdling veins, 
All thrilled by life's abhorrent consciousness. 
And sensitive feeling of a murderer's presence. 
— Away! come down from your tribunal-seat, 
Put off your robes of state, and let your mien 
Be pale and humbled ; for ye bear about you 
That which repugnant earth doth sicken at. 
More than the pestilence. — That I should live 
To see my father shrink ! 

Procida. Montalba, speak ! 
There 's something chokes my voice — but fear me 
not. 

Montalba. If we must plead to vindicate our acts, 
Be it when thou hast made thine own look clear ; 
Most eloquent youth ! What answer canst thou 

make 
To this our charge of treason 1 

Raimond. I will plead 
That cause before a mightier judgment-throne, 
Where mercy is not guilt. But here, I feel 
Too buoyantly the glory and the joy 
Of my free spirit's whiteness ; for e'en now 
Th' embodied hideousness of crime doth seem 
Before me glaring out. — Why, I saw thee, 
Thy foot upon an aged warrior's breast. 
Trampling out nature's last convulsive heavings. 
— And thou — thy sword — Oh, valiant chief! — is 

yet 
Red from the noble stroke which pierced, at once, 
A mother and the babe, whose little life 
Was from her bosom drawn ! — Immortal deeds 
For bards to hymn ! 

Guido {aside). I look upon his mien, 
And waver. Can it be7 My boyish heart 
Deemed him so noble once ! Away, weak thoughts I 
Why should I shrink, as if the guilt were mine, 
From his proud glance? 

Procida. Oh, thou dissembler! thou. 
So skilled to clothe with virtue's generous flush 
The hollow cheek of cold hypocrisy. 
That, with thy guilt made manifest, I can scarce 
Believe thee guilty ! Look on me, and say 
Whose was the secret warning voice, that saved 
De Couci with his bands, to join our foes, 
And forge new fetters for th' indignant land ■? 
Whose was this treachery 1 

[Shows him papers. 
Who hath promised here, 
(Belike to appease the manes of the dead,) 



At midnight to unfold Palermo's gates, 

And welcome in the foel Who hath done tliis, 

But thou, a tyrant's friend? 

Raimond. Who hath done this? 
Father I — if I may call thee by that name — 
Look, with thy piercing eye, on those whose smiles 
Were masks that hid their daggers. — There, per- 
chance. 
May lurk what loves not light too strong. For me, 
I know but this — there needs no deep research 
To prove the truth — that murderers may be traitors 
Ev'n to each other. 

Procida {to Montalba). His unaltering cheek 
Still vividly doth hold its natural hue. 
And his eye quails not ! — Is this innocence ? 

Montalba. No ! 'tis th' unshrinking hardihood 
of crime. 
— Thou bearest a gallant mien ! — But where is she 
Whom thou hast bartered fame and life to save, 
The fair Proven9al maid 1 — What, knowest thou 

not 
That this alone were guilt, to death allied ? 
Was 't not our law that he who spared a foe, 
(And is she not of that detested race ?) 
Should thenceforth be amongst us (w a foe ? 
— Where hast thou borne her 1 — speak ! 

Raimond. That Heaven, whose eye 
Burns up thy soul with its far-searching glance, 
Is with her ; she is safe. 

Procida. And by that word 
Thy doom is sealed. — Oh God! that I had died 
Before this bitter hour, in the full strength 
And glory of my heart ! • 

CONSTANCE enters, and rushes to RAIMOND. 

Constance. Oh ! art thou found ? 
— But yet, to find thee thus ! — Chains, chains for 

thee ! 
My brave, my noble love ! — Off with these bonds ; 
Let him be free as air : — for I am come 
To be your victim now. 

Raimond. Death has no pang 
More keen than this. — Oh ! wherefore art thou here? 
I could have died so calmly, deeming thee 
Saved, and at peace. 

Constance. At peace ! — And thou hast thought 
Thus poorly of my love ? — But woman's breast 
Hath strength to suffer too. — Thy father sits 
On this tribunal ; Raimond, which is he 1 

Raimond. My father ! — who hath lulled thy gen- 
tle heart 
With that false hope ? — Beloved ! gaze around — ■ 
See, if thine eye can trace a father's soul 
In the dark looks bent on us. 

Constance {after earnestly examining the coun- 
tenances of the judges, falls at the feet of Pro- 
cida). Thou art he ! 
Nay, turn thou not away ! — for I beheld 
Thy proud lip quiver, and a watery mist 



THE VESPERS OF PALERMO. 



91 



Pass o'er thy troubled eye ; and then I knew 
Thou wert his father !— Spare him !— talie my life ! 
In truth a worthless sacrifice for his, 
But yet mine all.— Oh ! he hath still to run 
A long bright race of glory. 

Raimond. Constance, peace ! 
I look upon thee, and my failing heart 
Is as a broken reed. 

Constance {still addressing Procida). Oh, yet 
relent ! 
If 'twas his crime to rescue me, behold 
I come to be the atonement ! Let him live 
To crown thine age with honour. — In thy heart 
There's a deep conflict ; but great nature pleads 
With an o'ermastering voice, and thou wilt yield ! 
— Thou art his father ! 

Procida {after a ■pause). Maiden, thou 'rt de- 
ceived ! 
I am as calm as that dead pause of nature 
Ere the full thunder bursts. — A judge is not 
Father or friend. Who calls this man my son 1 
— My son ! — Ay ! thus his mother proudly smiled — 
But she was noble ' — Traitors stand alone. 
Loosed from all ties.— Why should I trifle thus 1 
— Bear her away ! 

Raimond {starting forward). And whither"? 

Montalba. Unto death. 
Why should she live when all her race have pe- 
rished 7 

Constance {sinking into the arms of Raimond). 
Raimond, farewell ! — Oh ! when thy star hath 
risen 
To its bright noon, forget not^ best beloved, 
I died for thee ! 

Raimond. High Heaven! thou scest these things; 
And yet endurest them ! — Shalt thou die for me. 
Purest and loveliest being 1 — but our fate 
May not divide us long. Her cheek is cold — 
Her deep blue eyes are closed — Should this be 

death ! 
— If thus, there yet were mercy ! — Father, father ! 
Is thy heart human 1 

Procida. Bear her hence, I say ! 
Why must my soul be torn 1 

ANSELMO enters, Iiolding a CrucifLT. 

Anselmo. Now, by this sign 
Of Heaven's prevaiUng love, ye shall not harm 
One ringlet of her head. — How ! is there not 
Enough of blood upon j'our burthened souls 1 
Will not the visions of your midnight couch 
Be wild and dark enough, but ye must heap 
Crime upon crime 1 — Be ye content: — your dreams. 
Your councils, and your banquetings, will yet 
Be haunted by the voice which doth not sleep. 
E'en though this maid be spared ! — Constance, 

look up ! 
Thou shalt not die. 



Raimond. Oh ! death e'en now hath veiled 
The light of her soft beauty. Wake, my love ! 
Wake at my voice ! 

Procida. Ansehno, lead her hence. 
And let her live, but never meet my sight. 
— Begone ! — My heart will burst. 

Raimond. One last embrace ! 
— Again life's rose is opening on her cheek ; 
Yet must we part. So love is crushed on earth ! 
But there are brighter worlds I-J'arewell, farewell ! 
{He gives her to the care of Ansehno.) 

Constance {slawly recovering). There was a 
voice which called me. Am I not 
A spirit freed from earth 1 Have I not passed 
The bitterness of death "? 

Anselmo. Oh, haste away ! 

Constance. Yes ! Raimond calls me. He too is 
released 
From his cold bondage. We are free at last. 
And all is well — Away ! 

{She is led out by Anselmo.) 

Raimond. The pang is o'er. 
And I have but to die. 

Montalba. Now, Procida, 
Comes thy great task. Wake ! summon to thine aid 
All thy deep soul's commanding energies; 
For thou — a chief among us — must pronounce 
The sentence of thy son. It rests with thee. 

Procida. Ha ! ha ! — Men's hearts should be of 
softer mould 
Than in the elder time. Fathers could doom 
Their children then with an unfaltering voice, 
And we must tremble thus ! Is it not said. 
That nature grows degenerate, earth being now 
So full of days ? 

Montalba. Rouse up thy mighty heart. 

Procida. Ay, thou sayest right. There yet are 
souls which tower 
As landmarks to mankind. Well, what's the taski 
— There is a man to be condemned, you say 1 
Is he then guilty 7 

All. Thus we deem of him 
With one accord. 

Procida. And hath he nought to plead 7 

Raimond. Nought but a soul unstained. 

Procida. Why, that is little. 
Stains on the soul are but as conscience deems 

them. 
And conscience — may be scared. — But, for this 

sentence ! 
— Was 't not the penalty imposed on man, 
E'en from creation's dawn, that he must die 1 
— It was : thus making guilt a sacrifice 
Unto eternal justice ; and we but 
Obey Heaven's mandate, when we cast dark souls 
To th' elements from amongst us. — Be it so ! 
Such be his doom! — I have said. Ay, now my 
heart 



92 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



Is girt with adamant, whose cold weight doth press 
Its gaspings down. — Off! let me breathe in free- 
dom ! 
— Mountains are on my breast! (77e sinks back.) 

Montalba. Guards, bear the prisoner 
Back to Iiis dungeon. 

Raimond. Father! oh, look up; 
Thou art my father still ! 

Guido (leaving the Tribunal, throws himself on 
the neck of J^imond). Oh ! Raimond, Rai- 
mond ! 
If it should be that I have wronged thee, say 
Thou dost forgive me. 

Raimond. Friend of my young days, 
So may all-pitying Heaven ! 

(Raimond is led out.) 
Procida. Whose voice was that 1 
Where is he? — gone? — now I may breathe once 

more 
In the free air of heaven. Let us awaj'. 

[Exeunt omnes. 



ACT THE FIFTH. 

SCENE I. A PRISON, DIMLY LIGHTED. 

RAIMOND sleeping. PROCIDA enters. 

Procida. (^gazing upon him earnestly). Can 
he then sleep? — Th' o'ershadowing night 
hath wrapt 
Earth, at her stated hours — the stars have set 
Their burning watch ; and all things hold their 

course 
Of wakefulness and rest ; yet hath not sleep 
Sat on mine eyelids since — but this avails not ! 
— And thus he slumbers ! — " Why, this mien doth 

seem 
As if its soul were but one lofty thought 
Of an immortal destiny!" — his brow 
Is calm as waves whereon the midnight heavens 
Are imaged silently. — Wake, Raimond, wake! 
Thy rest is deep. 

Raimond (starting up). My father! — Where- 
fore here? 
I am prepared to die, yet would I not 
Fall by thy hand. 

Procida. 'Twas not for this I came. 

Raimond. Then wherefore ? — and upon thy 
lofty brow 
Why burns the troubled flush ? 

Procida. Perchance 'tis shame. 
Yes ! it may well be shame ! — for I have striven 
With nature's feebleness, and been o'erpowered. 
— Howe'er it be, 'tis not for thee to gaze, 
Noting it -thus. Rise, let me loose thy chains. 
Arise, and follow me ; but let thy step 
Fall without sound on earth : I have prepared 
The means for thy escape. 



Raimond. What ! thou ! the austere, 
The inflexible Procida ! hast thou done this, 
Deeming me guilty still? 

Procida. Upbraid me not ? 
It is even so. There have been nobler deeds 
By Roman fathers done, — but I am weak. 
Therefore, again I say, arise ! and haste, 
For the night wanes. Thy fugitive course must 

be 
To realms beyond the deep ; so let us part 
In silence, and for ever. 

Raimond. Let hirn fly 
Who holds no deep asylum in his breast. 
Wherein to shelter from the scoffs of men ! 
— I can sleep calmly here. 

Procida. Art thou in love 
With death and infamy, that so thy choice 
Is made, lost boy ! when freedom courts thy grasp 1 

Raimond. Father ! to set th' irrevocable seal 
Upon that shame wherewith ye have branded me 
There needs but flight. What should I bear from 

this. 
My native land ? — A blighted name, to rise 
And part me, with its dark remembrances, 
For ever from the sunshine ! — O'er my soul 
Bright shadowings of a nobler destiny 
Float in dim beauty through the gloom ; but here. 
On earth, my hopes are closed. 

Procida. Thy hopes are closed ! 
And what were they to mine ? — Thou wilt not fly I 
Why, let all traitors flock to thee, and learn 
How proudly guilt can talk ! — Let fathers rear 
Their offspring henceforth, as the free wild birds 
Foster their young ; when these can mount alone, 
Dissolving nature's bonds — why should it not 
Be so with us? 

Raimond. Oh, Father ! — Now I feel 
What high prerogatives belong to death. 
He hath a deep, (hough voiceless eloquence, 
To which I leave my cause. " His solemn veil 
Doth with mysterious beauty clothe our virtues, 
And in its vast, oblivious folds, for ever 
Give shelter to our faults." When I am gone, 
The mists of passion which have dimmed my name 
Will melt like day-dreams ; and my memory then 
Will be — not what it should have been — for I 
Must pass without my fame — but yet, unstained 
As a clear morning dew-drop. Oh ! the grave 
Hath rights inviolate as a sanctuary's, 
And they should be my own ! 

Procida. Novsr, by just Heaven, 
I will not thus be tortured ! — AVere my heart 
But of thy guilt or innocence assured, 
I could be calm again. " But, in this wild 
Suspense, — this conflict and vicissitude 
Of opposite feelings and convictions — What ! 
Hath it been mine to temper and to bend 
All spirits to my purpose ; have I raised 
With a severe and passionless energy. 



THE VESPERS OF PALERMO. 



93 



From the dread mingling of their elements, 
Storms which have rocked the earth 7 — And shall 

I now 
Thus fluctuate, as a feeble reed, the scorn 
And plajthing of the winds T' — Look on me, boy ! 
Guilt never dared to meet these eyes, and keep 
Its heart's dark secret close. Oh, pitying Heaven ! 
Speak to my soul with some dread oracle, 
And tell me which is truth. 

Raimond. I will not plead. 
I will not call th' Omnipotent to attest 
My innocence. No, father, in thy heart 
I know my birthright shall be soon restored ; 
Therefore I look to death, and bid thee speed 
The great absolver. 

Procida. Oh! my son, my son! 
We will not part in wrath ! — the sternest hearts, 
Within their proud and guarded fastnesses, 
Hide something still, round which their tendrils 

cling 
With a close grasp, unknown to those who dress 
Their love in smiles. And such wert thoa to me ! 
The all which taught me that my soul was cast 
In nature's mould. — And I must now hold on 
My desolate course alone! — Why, be«tthus! 
He that doth guide a nation's star, should dwell 
High o'er the clouds in regal solitude, 
Sufficient to himself. 

Raimond. Yet, on that summit, 
When with her bright wings glory shadows thee, 
Forget not hira who coldly sleeps beneath. 
Yet might have soared as high ! 

Procida. No, fear thou not ! 
Thou 'It be remembered long. The canker-worm 
C th' heart is ne'er forgotten. 

Raimond. " Oh ! not thus — 
I would not thus be thought of." 

Procida. Let me deem 
Again that thou art base ! — for thy bright looks, 
Thy glorious mien of fearlessness and truth. 
Then would not haunt me as th' avenging powers 
Followed the parricide. — Farewell, farewell ! 
I have no tears. — Oh ! thus thy mother looked. 
When, with a sad, yet half-triumphant smile. 
All radiant with deep meaning, from her death-bed 
She gave thee to my arms. 

Raimond. Now death has lost 
His sting, since thou believ'st me innocent. 

Procida {wildly). Thou innocent ! — Am I thy 
murderer then 1 
Away I I tell thee thou hast made my name 
A scorn to men ! — No ! I will not forgive thee ; 
A traitor !— What ! the blood of Procida 
Filling a traitor's veins! — Let the earth drink it; 
Thou wouldst receive our foes! — but they shall 

meet 
From thy perfidious lips a welcome, cold 
As death can make it. — Go, prepare thy soul I 

Raimond. Father! yet hear me! 
16 



Procida. No ! thou 'rt skilled to make 
E'en shame look fair. — Why should I linger thus 1 
{Going to leave the prison he turns back for a 
moment.) 
If there be aught — if aught — for which thou 

need'st 
Forgiveness — not of me, but that dread power 
From whom no heart is veiled — delay thou not 
Thy prayer: — Time hurries on. 
Raimond. I am prepared. 
Procida. 'Tis well. [Exit Procida. 

Raimond. Men talk of torture! — Can they 
wreak 
Upon the sensitive and shrinking frame. 
Half the mind bears, and lives ? — My spirit feels 
Bewildered; on its powers this twilight gloom 
Hangs Uke a weight of earth. — It should be morn ; 
Why, then, perchance, a beam of Heaven's bright 

sun 
Hath pierced, erenow, the grating of my dungeon, 
TelUng of hope and mercy ! 

[Exit into an inner cell. 

SCENE II. — A STREET OF PALERMO. 
Many QTIZENS assembled. 
First Citizen. The morning breaks ; his time 
is almost come: 
Will he be led this way 1 

Second Citizen. Ay, so 'tis said. 
To die before that gate through which he purposed 
The foe should enter in. 

Third Citizen. 'Twas a vile plot! 
And yet I would my hands were pure as his 
From the deep stain of blood. Didst hear the 

sounds 
r th' air last night 1 

Second Citizen. Since the great work of 
slaughter. 
Who hath not heard them duly, at those hours 
Which should be silent 1 

Third Citizen. Oh ! the fearful mingling, 
The terrible municry of human voices, 
In every sound which to the heart doth speak 
Of wo and death. 

Second Citizen. Ay, there was woman's shrill 
And piercing cry ; and the low feeble wail 
Of dying infants; and the half-suppressed 
Deep groan of man in his last agonies ! 
And now and then there swelled upon the breeze 
Strange, savage bursts of laughter, wilder far 
Than all the rest. 

First Citizen. Of our own fate, perchance 
These awful midnight wailings may be deemed 
An ominous prophecy. — Should France regain 
Her power amongst us, doubt not, we shall have 
Stern reckoners to account with. — Hark ! 

( The sound of trumpets heard at distance.') 
Second Citizen. 'Twas but 
A rushing of the breeze 



94 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



Third Citizen. E'en now, 'tis said, 
The hostile bands approach. 
( The sound is heard gradually drawing nearer.) 

Second Citizen. Again 1 — that sound 
Was no illusion. Nearer yet it swells — 
They come, they come ! 

PROCIDA enters. 

Procida. The foe is at your gates ; 
But hearts and hands prepared shall meet his onset : 
Why are ye loitering here 1 

Citizens. My lord, we came — 

Procida. Think ye I know not wherefore 1 — 
'twas to see 
A fellow-being die I — Ay, 'tis a sight 
Man loves to look on, and the tenderest hearts 
Recoil, and yet withdraw not, from the scene. 
For this ye came — What ! is our nature fierce, 
Or is there that in mortal agony, 
From which the soul, exulting in its strength, 
Doth learn immortal lessons'? — Hence, and arm! 
Ere the night dews descend, ye will have seen 
Enough of death ; for this must be a day 
Of battle ! — 'Tis the hour which troubled souls 
Delight in, for its rushing storms are wings 
Which bear them up ! — Arm, arm ! 'tis for your 

homes, 
And all that lends them lovehness — Away ! 

[Exeunt. 

SCKNE III. — PRISON OF RAIMOND. 
RAIMOKD. ANSELMO. 

Raimond. And Constance then is safe ! — Hea- 
ven bless thee, father ; 
Good angels bear such comfort. 

Anselmo. I have found 
A safe asylum for thine honoured love, 
Where she may dwell until serener days. 
With Saint Rosolia's gentlest daughters ; those 
Whose hallowed ofhce is to tend the bed 
Of pain and death, and sooth the parting soul 
With their soft hymns : and therefore are they 

called 
" Sisters of Mercy." 

Raimond. Oh 1 that name, my Constance, 
Befits thee well ! E'en in our happiest days, 
There was a depth of tender pensiveness, 
Far in thine eyes' dark azure, speaking ever 
Of pity and mild grief Is she at peace ? 

Anselmo. Alas ! what should I say 1 

Raimond. Why did I ask 1 
Knowing the deep and full devotedness 
Of her young heart's aflTections? — Oh ! the thought 
Of my untimely fate will haunt her dreams, 
Which should have been so tranquil ! And her soul, 
Whose strength was but the lofty gift of love, 
Even unto death will sicken. 

Anselmo. All that faith 
Can yield of comfort, shall assuage her woes ; 



I 



And still, whate'er betide, the light of Heaven '• 
Rests on her gentle heart. But thou, my son ! 
Is thy young spirit mastered and prepared 
For nature's fearful and mysterious change? 

Raimond. Ay, father! ofmy brief remaining task 
The least part is to die ! — And yet the cup | 

Of life still mantled brightly to my lips, B 

Crowned with that sparkhng bubble, whose proud 

name 
Is — glory ! — Oh ! my soul, from boyhood's morn, 
Hath nursed such mighty dreams ! — It was my hope 
To leave a name, whose echo, from the abyss 
Of time should rise, and float upon the winds, 
Into the far hereafter : there to be 
A trumpet-sound, a voice from the deep tomb. 
Murmuring — Awake ! — Arise ! — But this is past ! 
Erewhile, and it had seemed enough of shame, 
To sXee'p forgotten in the dust — but now 
— Oh God ! — the undying record of my grave 
Will he, — Here sleeps a traitor ! — One, whose crime 
Was— to deem brave men might find nobler weapons 
Than the cold murderer's dagger ! 

Anselmo. Oh, my son. 
Subdue tliese troubled thoughts ! Thou wouldst 

not change 
Thy lot for theirs, o'er whose dark dreams will hang 
The avenging shadows, which the blood-stained soul 
Doth conjure from the dead ! 

Raimond. Thou 'rt right. I would not. 
Yet 'tis a weary task to school the heart. 
Ere years or griefs have tamed its fiery spirit 
Into that still and passive fortitude, 
Which is but learned from suffering. Would the 

hour 
To hush these passionate throbbings were at hand! 
Anselmo. It will not be to-day. Hast thou not 

heard — 
— But no — the rush, the trampling, and the stir 
Of this great city, arming in her haste, 
Pierce not these dungeon-depths. The foe hath 

reached 
Our gates, and all Palermo's youth, and all 
Her warrior-men, are marshalled, and gone forth 
In that high hope which makes reaUties, 
To the red field. Thy father leads them on. 
Raimond {starting up). They are gone forth ! 

my father leads them on ! 
All, all Palermo's youth ! — No ! one is left, 
Shut out from glory's race ! — They are gone forth! 
— Ay ! now the soul of battle is abroad, 
It burns upon the air ! — The joyous winds 
Are tossing warrior-plumes, the proud white foam 
Of battle's roaring billows ! — On my sight 
The vision bursts — it maddens ! 'tis the flash! 
The lightning-shock of lances, and the cloud 
Of rushing arrows, arid the broad full blaze 
Of helmets in the sun ! — The very steed 
With his majestic rider glorying shares 
The hour's stern joy, and waves his floating mane 



THE VESPERS OF PALERMO. 



95 



As a triumphant banner ! — Such things are 
Even now — and I am here ! 

Anselmo. Alas, be calm ! 
To the same grave ye press, — thou that dost pine 
Beneath a weight of chains, and they that rule 
The fortunes of the fight. 

Raimond. Ay ! Thou canst feel 
The calm thou wouldst impart, for unto thee 
All men alike, the warrior and the slave. 
Seem, as thou sayst, but pilgrims, pressing on 
To the same bourne. Yet call it not the same ! 
Their graves, who fall in this day's light, will be 
As altars to their country, visited 
By fathers with their children, bearing wreaths, 
And chanting hymns in honour of the dead : 
Will mine be such ? 

VITTORIA rushes in wildly, as if pursued. 

Vittoria. Anselmo! art thou found 1 
Haste, haste, or all is lost. Perchance thy voice, 
"Whereby they deem Heaven speaks, thy lifted cross. 
And prophet-mien, may stay the fugitives, 
Or shame them back to die. 

Anselmo. The fugitives! 
What words are these 1 — the sons of Sicily 
Fly not before the foe % 

Vittoria. That I should say 
It is too true ! 

Anselmo. And thou — thou bleedest, lady ! 

Vittoria. Peace ! heed not me, when Sicily is 
lost: 
I stood upon the walls, and watched our bands. 
As, with their ancient, royal banner spread, 
Onward they marched. The combat was begun. 
The fiery impulse given, and valiant men 
Had sealed their freedom with their blood — when 

lo! 
That false Alberti led his recreant vassals 
To join th' invader's host. 

Raimond. His country's curse 
Rest on the slave for ever ! 

Vittoria. Then distrust 
E'en of their nobler leaders, and dismay. 
That swift contagion, on Palermo's bands 
Came, like a deadly blight. They fled! — Ohshame! 
E'en now they fly ! — Ay, through the city gates 
They rush, as if all Etna's burning streams 
Pursued their winged steps ! 

Ral.nond. Thou hast not named 
Their chief— Di Procida — He doth not fly. 

Vittoria. No ! like a kingly lion in the toils, 
Daring the hunters yet, he proudly strives 
But all in vain ! The few that breast the storm. 
With Guido and Montalba, by his side. 
Fight but for graves upon the battle-field. 

Raimond. And I am here! — Shall there be 
power, O God ! 
In the roused energies of fierce despair, 
To burst my heart — and not to rend my chains ? 



Oh, for one moment of the thunderbolt 
To set the strong man free ! 

Vittoria {after gazing upon him, earnestly). 
Why, 'twere a deed 

Worthy the fame and blessing of all time, 
To loose thy bonds, thou son of Procida ! 
Thou art no traitor : — from thy kindled brow 
Looks out thy lofty soul ! — Arise ! go forth ! 
And rouse the noble heart of Sicily 
Unto hicjh deeds again. Anselmo, haste ; 
Unbind him ! Let my spirit still prevail. 
Ere I depart — for tlie strong hand of death 
Is on me now. 

{She sinks back against a pillar.") 

Anselmo. Oh Heaven ! the life-blood streams 
Fast from thy heart — thy troubled eyes grow dim. 
Who hath done this ? 

Vittoria. Before the gates I stood, 
And in the name of him, the loved and lost. 
With whom I soon shall be, all vainly strove 
To stay the shameful flight. Then from the foe, 
Fraught with my summons to his viewless home, 
Came tlie fleet shaft which pierced me. 

Anselmo. Yet, oh yet. 
It may not be too late. Help, help ! 

Vittoria. Away ! 
Bright is the hour which brings me liberty ! 

{Attendants enter.) 
Haste, be those fetters riven ! — Unbar the gates, 
And set the captive free! 

{The Attendants seem to hesitate.) 
Know ye not her 
Who should have worn your country's diademl 

Attendants. Oh, lady, we obey. 
( They take off Raimond^s chains. He springs 
up exultingly.) 

Raimond. Is this no dream? 
— Mount, eagle ! thou art free ! — Shall I then die, 
Not 'midst the mockery of insulting crowds, 
But on the field of banners, where the brave 
Are striving for an immortality 1 
— It is e'en so! — Now for bright arms of proof, 
A helm, a keen-edged falchion, and e'en yet 
My father may be saved ! 

Vittoria. Away, be .strong ! 
And let thy battle-words, to rule the storm, 
Be — Conradin! {He rushes out.) 

Oh ! for one hour of life 
To hear that name blent with th' exulting shout 
Of victory ! — 't will not be ! — A mightier power 
Doth summon me away. 

Anselmo. To purer worlds 
Raise thy last thoughts in hope. 

Vittoria. Yes ! he is there. 
All glorious in his beauty! Conradin! 
Death parted us — and death shall re- unite! 
— He will not stay ! — it is all darkness now I 
Night gathers o'er my spirit. {She dies.) 

Anselmo. She is gone ! 



96 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



It is an awful hour which stills the heart 
That beat so proudly once. — Have mercy, Heaven! 
(He kneels beside her.^ 
( The scene closes.') 

SCENE IT. — BEFORE THE GATES OP PALERMO. 

SICILIANS flying tumultuously towards the Gates. 
Voices {loithout). Montjoy! Montjoy! St, Den- 
nis for Anjou ! 
Provencals, on ! 

Sicilians. Fly, fly, or all is lost! 
{Raimond appears in the gateway, armed, and 
carrying a banner.) 
Raimond. Back, back, I say ! ye men of Sicily ! 
All is not lost I Oh shame ! — A few brave hearts 
In such a cause, ere now, have set their breasts 
Against the rush of thousands, and sustained. 
And made the shock recoil. — Ay, man, free man. 
Still to be called so, hath achieved such deeds 
As heaven and earth have marvelled at ; and souls, 
Whose spark yet slumbers with the days to come, 
Shall burn to hear : transmitting brightly thus 
Freedom from race to race ! — Back ! or prepare. 
Amidst your hearths, your bowers, your very 

shrines. 
To bleed and die in vain ! — Turn, follow me ! 
Conradin, Conradin I — for Sicily 
His spirit fights ! — Remember Conradin ! 

( They begin to rally around him.) 
Ay, this is well ! — Now follow me, and charge ! 
The Provencals rush in, hut are repulsed by 
the Sicilians.) 

[E.vcunt. 

SCENE y. — PART OF THE FIELD OP BATTLE. 

MONTALBA enters wounded, and supported by RAIMOND, 
whose face is concealed by his helmet. 

Raimond. Here rest thee, warrior. 
Montalba. Rest, ay, death is rest, 
And such will soon be mine — But, thanks to thee, 
I shall not die a captive. Brave Sicilian ! 
These lips are all unused to soothing words. 
Or I should bless the valour which hath won 
For my last hour, the proud free solitude 
Wherewith my soul would gird itself — Thy name? 
Raimond. 'Twill be no music to thine ear, Mon- 
talba. 
Gaze — read it thus ! 

{He lifts the visor of his helmet.) 
Montalba. Raimond di Procida ! 
Raimond. Thou hast pursued me with a bitter 
hate. 
But fare thee well ! Heaven's peace be with thy 

soul! 
I must away — One glorious efibrt more 
And this proud field is won ! 

[Exit Raimond. 
Montalba. Am I thus humbled 1 
How my heart sinks within me ! But 'tis death 



(And he can tame the mightiest) hath subdued 
My towering nature thus ! — Yet is he welcome 
That youth — 'twas in his pride he rescued me ! 
I was his deadliest foe, and thus he proved 
His fearless scorn. Ha! ha! but he shall fail 
To melt me into womanish feebleness. 
There I still baffle him — the grave shall seal 
My lips for ever — mortal shall not hear 
Montalba say — ' ' Forgive !" (He dies.) 

( The scene closes.) 

SCENE TI. — ANOTHER PART OP THE FIELD. 

PROCIUA. GirroO. And other Sicilians. 

Procida. The day is ours; but he, the brave 
unknown, 
Who turned the tide of battle ; he whose path 
Was victory — who hath seen him? 

ALBERTI is brought in wounded, and fettered. 

Alberti. Procida! 

Procida. Be silent, traitor! — Bear him from my 
sight 
Unto your deepest dungeons. 

Alberti. In the grave 
A nearer home awaits me. — Yet one word 
Ere my voice fail — thy son — 

Procida. Speak, speak ! 

Alberti. Thy son 
Knows not a thought of guilt. That trait'rous plot 
Was mine alone. (He is led away.) 

Procida. Attest it, earth and Heaven ! 
My son is guiltless ! — Hear it, Sicily ! 
The blood of Procida is noble still ! 
— My son I — He lives, he lives ! — His voice shall 

speak 

Forgiveness to his sire ! — His name shall cast 
Its brightness o'er my soul ! 

Guido. Oh, day of joy ! 
The brother of my heart is worthy still 
The lofty name he bears. 

ANSELMO enters. 

Procida. Anselmo ! welcome ! 
In a glad hour we meet, for know, my son 
Is guiltless. 

Anselmo. And victorious ! by his arm 
All hath been rescued. 

Procida. How ! th' unknown — 

Anselmo. Was he ! 
Thy noble Raimond ! By Vittoria's hand 
Freed from his bondage in that awful hour 
When all was flight and terror. 

Procida. Now my cup 
Of joy too brightly mantles ! — Let me press 
My warrior to a father's heart — and die ; 
For life hath nought beyond — Why comes he 

Anselmo, lead me to my vaUant boy ! 
ATiselmo. Temper this proud delight. 



THE VESPERS OF PALERMO. 



97 



Procida. What means that look '? 
He hath not fallen? 

Anselmo. He lives. 

Procida. Away, away! 
Bid the wide city with triumphal pomp 
Prepare to greet her victor. Let this hour 
Atone for all his wrongs!— [Exeunt. 

SCENE VII.— GARDEN OP A CONVENT. 

RAIMOND is led in wounded, leaning on Attendants. 

Raimond. Bear me to no dull couch, but let me 
die 
In the bright face of nature !— Lift my helm, 
That I may look on heaven. 

First Attendant {to Second Attendant). Lay 
him to rest 
On this green sunny bank, and I will call 
Some holy sister to his aid ; but thou 
Return unto the field, for high-born men 
There need the peasant's aid. 

[Exit Second Attendant. 

( To Raimond). Here gentler hands 
Shall tend thee, warrior; for in these retreats 
They dwell, whose vows devote them to the care 
Of all that suffer. May'st thou live to bless them ! 
[Exit First Attendant. 

Raimond. Thus have I wished to die! — 'Twas 
a proud strife I 
My father blessed th' unknown who rescued him, 
(Blessed him, alas ! because unknown !) and Guido, 
Beside me bravely struggling, called aloud, 
"Noble Sicilian, on!" Oh! had they deemed 
'Twas I who led that rescue, they had spurned 
Mine aid, though 'twas deliverance; and their 

looks 
Had fallen, like blights, upon me, — There is one. 
Whose eye ne'er turned on mine, but its blue light 
Grew softer, trembling through tlie dewy mist 
Raised by deep tenderness ! — Oh might the soul 
Set in that eye, shine on me ere I perish ! 
— Is 't not her voice 1 

CONSTANCE enters, speaking to a NUN, who turns into 
anotlier path. 

Constance. Oh! happy they, kind sister, 
Whom thus ye tend ; for it is theirs to fall 
With brave men side by side, when tlie roused 

heart 
Beats proudly to the last! — There are high souls 
Whose hope was such a death, and 'tis denied ! 
()S/ie approaches Raimond). 
Young warrior, is there aught — thou here, my 

Raimond ! 
TAou here — and thus! — Oh! is this joy or wo "? 
Raimond. Joy, be it joy, my own, my blessed 
love. 
E'en on the grave's dim verge ! — yes ! it is joy ! 
My Constance! victors have been crowned, ere 
now 



With the green shining laurel, when their brows 
Wore death's own impress — and it may be thus 
E'en yet with me ! — They freed me, when the foe 
Had half prevailed, and I have proudly earned, 
With my heart's dearest blood, the meed to die 
Within thine arms.' 

Co7istance. Oh ! speak not thus — to die I 
These wounds may yet be closed. 

{She attempts to bind his uounds.) 
Look on me, love ! 

Why, there is more than life in thy glad mien, 
'Tis full of hope! and from thy kindled eye 
Breaks e'en unwonted light, whose ardent ray 
Seems born to be immortal ! 

Raimond. 'Tis e'en so! 
The parting soul doth gather all her fires 
Around her: all her glorious hopes, and dreams 
And burning aspirations, to illume 
The shadowy dimness of th' untrodden path 
Which lies before her; and, encircled thus, 
Awhile she sits in dying eyes, and thence 
Sends forth her bright farewell. Thy gentle cares 
Are vain, and yet I bless them. 

Constance. Say, not vain; 
The dying look not thus. We shall not part! 

Raimond. I have seen death ere now, and 
known him wear 
Full many a changeful aspect. 

Constance. Oh ! but none 
Radiant as thine, my warrior ! — Thou wilt live ! 
Look round thee ! — all is sunshine — is not this 
A smiling world "? 

Raimond. Ay, gentlest love, a world 
Of joyous beauty and magnificence, 
Almost too fair to leave ! — Yet must we tame 
Our ardent hearts to this! — ©h, weep thou not! 
There is no home for liberty, or love. 
Beneath these festal skies ! — Be not deceived ! 
My way lies far be3'ond ! — I shall be soon 
That viewless thing which, with its mortal weeds 
Casting off meaner passions, yet, we trust, 
Forgets not how to love ! 

Constance. And must this be? 
Heaven, thou art merciful ! — Oh ! bid our souls 
Depart together! 

Raimond. Constance ! there is strength 
Withui thy gentle heart, which hath been proved 
Nobly for me : — Arouse it once again ! 
Thy grief unmans me — and I fain would meet 
That which approaches, as a brave man yields 
With proud submission to a mightier foe, 
— It is upon me now ! 

Constance. I will be calm. 
Let thy head rest upon my bosom, Raimond, 
And I will so suppress its quick deep sobs, 
They shall but rock thee to thy rest. There is 
A world, (ay, let us seek it!) where no blight 
Falls on the beautiful rose of youth, and there 
I shall be with thee soon ! 



98 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



PROCIDA and ANSELMO enter. PROCIDA on seeing 
RAIMOND starts back. 

Anselmo. Lift up thy head, 
Brave youth, exultingly! for lo! thine hour 
Of glory comes! — Oh! doth it come too late? 
E'en now the false Alberti hath confessed 
That guilty plot, for which thy life was doomed 
To be th' atonement. 

Raimond. 'Tis enough! Rejoice, 
Rejoice, my Constance ! for I leave a name 
O'tsr which thou may'st weep proudly I 

{He sinks back.) 
To thy breast 

Fold me yet closer, for an icy dart 
Hath touched my veins. 

Constance. And must thou leave me, Raimond'? 
Alas ! thine eye grows dim — Its wandering glance 
Is full of dreams. 

Raimond. Haste, haste, and tell my father 
1 was no traitor ! 

Procida {rushing forward). To that father's 
heart 
Return, forgiving all thy wrongs, return! 
Speak to me, Raimond ! — Thou wert ever kind. 
And brave, and gentle ! Say that all the past 
Shall be forgiven! That word from none but thee 
My lips e'er asked. — Speak to me once, my boy. 
My pride, my hope! — And is it with thee thusl 
Look on me yet! — Oh! must this wo be borne ? 

Raimond. Off with this weight of chains ! it is 
not meet 
For a crowned conqueror ! — Hark, the trumpet's 
voice ! 

{A sound of triumphant music is heard, 
gradually approaching.) 
Is 't not a thrilling call"? — What drowsy spell 
Benumbs me thus 1 — Hence ! I am free again ! 
Now swell your festal strains^ the field is won ! 
Sing me to glorious dreams. {He dies.) 

Anselmo. The strife is past. 
There fled a noble spirit ! 

Constance. Hush! he sleeps — 
Disturb him not I 

Anselmo. Alas ! this is no sleep 



From which the eye doth radiantly unclose : 
Bow down thy soul, for earthly hope is o'er ! 

( The music continues approaching. Guido 
enters, with Citizens and Soldiers.) 

Guido. The shrines are decked, the festive 
torches blaze — 
Where is our brave deliverer! — We are come 
To crown Palermo's victor ! 

Anselmo. Ye come too late. 
The voice of human praise doth send no echo 
Into the world of spirits. ( The music ceases.) 

Proclda{after a pause). Is this dust 
I look on — Raimond ! — 'tis but sleep — a smile 
On his pale cheek sits proudly. Raimond, wake ! 
Oh, God! and this was his triumphant day! 
My son, my injured son ! 

Const-ance {starting). Art thou his father! 
I know thee now. — Hence ! with thy dark stern 

eye, 
And thy cold heart! — Thou canst not wake him 

now! 
Away ! he will not answer but to me, 
For none like me hath loved him ! He is mine! 
Ye shall not rend him from me, 

Procida. Oh ! he knew 
Thy love, poor maid ! — Shrink from me now no 

more ! 
He knew thy heart — but who shall tell him now 
The depth, th' intenseness, and the agony. 
Of my suppressed affection 1 — I have learned 
All his high worth in time — to deck his grave ! 
Is there not power in the strong spirit's wo 
To force an answer from the viewless world 
Of the departed 1 — Raimond I — Speak! forgive! 
Raimond ! my victor, my deliverer, hear ! 
Why, what a world is this ! — Truth ever bursts 
On the dark soul too late : And glory crowns 
Th' unconscious dead ! — And an hour comes to 

break 
The mightiest hearts ! — My son ! my son ! is this 
A day of triumph ! — Ay, for thee alone ! 

{He throws himself upon the body of Raimond). 
[Curtain falls. 



THE LEAGUE OF THE ALPS. 



99 



8Ctie Heasttc DC tlie ^IptSf 



THE MEETING ON THE FIELD OP GRiJTLI. 



ADVERTISEMENT. 



It was in the year 1308, that the Swiss rose 
against the tyranny of the Bailiffs appointed over 
them by Albert of Austria. The field called the 
Grutli, at the foot of the Seelisberg, and near the 
boundaries of Uri and Unterwalden, was fixed 
upon by three spirited yeomen, Walter Fiirst (the 
father-in-law of William Tell), Werner Staufla- 
cher, and Erni (or Arnold) Melchthal, as their place 
of meeting, to deliberate on the accomplishment of 
their projects. 

" Hither came Fiirstand Melchthal, along secret 
paths over the heights, and Stauffacher in his boat 
across the Lake of the Four Cantons. On the 
night preceding the 11th of November, 1307, they 
met here, each with ten associates, men of approv- 
ed worth ; and while at this solemn hour they were 
wrapt in the contemplation that on their success 
depended the fate of their whole posterity, Werner 
Walter, and Arnold held up their hands to heaven, 
and in the name of the Almighty, who has created 
man to an inaUenahle degree of freedom, swore 
jointly and strenuously to defend that freedom 
The thirty associates heard the oath with awe; and 
with uplifted hands attested the same God, and all 
his saints, that they were firmly bent on offering 
up their Uves for the defence of their injured liberty. 
They then calmly agreed on their future proceed- 
ings, and for the present, each returned to his 
hamlet." — Planta's History of the Helvetic Confe- 
deracy. 

On the first day of the year 1308, they succeeded 
in throwing off the Austrian yoke, and "it is well 
attested," says the same author, " that not one drop 
of blood was shed on this memorable occasion, nor 
had one proprietor to lament the loss of a claim, a 
privilege, or an inch of land. The Swiss met on 
the succeeding sabbath, and once more confirmed 
by oath their ancient, and (as they fondly named 
it) their perpetual league." 



I. 
'TwAS night upon the Alps. — The Senn's(l) 

wild horn, 
Like a wind's voice, had poured its last long 

tone, 



Whose pealing echoes through the larch-woods 

borne. 
To the low cabins of the glens made known 
That welcome steps were nigh. The flocks had 

gone. 
By cliff and pine-bridge, to their place of rest; 
The chamois slumbered, for the chase was done 
His cavern-bed of moss the hunter prest. 
And the rock-eagle couched, Iiigh on his cloudy 

nest. 

II. 

Did the land sleep 1 — the woodman's axe had 

ceased 
Its ringing notes upon the beech and plane; 
The grapes were gathered in ; the vintage feast 
Was closed upon the hills, the reaper's strain 
Hushed by the streams; the year was in its 

wane, 
The night in its mid-watch ; it was a time 
E'en marked and hollowed into Slumber's reign. 
But thoughts were stirring, restless and sublime, 
And o'er his white Alps moved the Spirit of the 

clime. 

III. 

For there, where snows in crowning glory spread, 
High and unmarked by mortal footstep lay; 
And there, where torrents, 'midst the ice-caves 

fed, 
Burst in their joy of light and sound away; 
And there, where Freedom, as in scornful play, 
Had hung man's dwellings 'midst the realms of 

air, 
O'er cliffs tlie very birth-place of the day — 
Oh! who would dream that Tyranny would dare 
To lay her withering hand on God's bright works 

e'en there 1 

IV. 
Yet thus it was — amidst the fleet streams gush- 

ing 
To bring down rainbows o'er their sparry cell, 
And the glad heights, through mist and tempest 

rushing 
Up where the sun's red fire-glance earliest fell, 
And the fresh pastures, where the herd's sweet 

beU 



100 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



Recalled such life as Eastern patriarchs led ; — 
There peasant-men their free thoughts might 

not tell 
Save in the hour of shadows and of dread, 
And hollow sounds that wake to Guilt's dull, steal- 
thy tread. 



But in a land of happy shepherd-homes, 
On its green hills in quiet joy reclining 
With their bright hearth-fires, 'midst the twi 

light-glooms, 
From bowery lattice through the fir-woods 

shining ; 
A land of legends and wild songs, entwining 
Their memory with all memories loved and 

blest — 
In such a land there dwells a power, combining 
The strength of many a calm, but fearless breast ; 
— And wo to him who breaks the sabbath of its 

rest! 

VI. 

A sound went up — the wave's dark sleep was 

broken 
On Uri's lake was heard a midnight oar — 
Of man's brief course a troubled moment's token 
Th' eternal waters to their barriers bore ; 
And then their gloom a flashing image wore 
Of torch-fires streaming out o'er crag and wood, 
And the wild falcon's wing was heard to soar 
In startled haste — and by that moonlight-flood, 
A band of patriot-men on Griitli's verdure stood. 

VII. 

They stood in arms — the wolf-spear and the bow 
Had waged their war on things of mountain- 
race; 
Might not their swift stroke reach a mail-clad 

foe-? 
— Strong hands in harvest, daring feet in chase. 
True hearts in fight, were gathered on that place 
Of secret council. — Not for fame or spoil 
So met those men in Heaven's majestic face ; — 
To guard free hearths they rose, the sons of toil. 
The hunter of the rocks, the tiller of the soil. 

VIII. 

O'er their low pastoral valleys might the tide 
Of years have flowed, and still, from sire to son, 
Their names and records on the green earth died, 
As cottage lamps, expiring, one by one, 
In the dim glades, when midnight hath begun 
To hush all sound. — But silent on its height. 
The snow-mass, full of death, while ages run 
Their course, may slumber, bathed in rosy light. 
Till some rash voice or step disturb its brooding 
might. 



IX. 

So were theij roused — th' invading step had past 
Their cabin-thresholds, and the lowly door. 
Which well had stood against the Fohnwind's(2) 

blast, 
Could bar Oppression from their homes no more, 
— Why, what had she to do where all things 

wore 
Wild Grandeur's impress 1 — In the storm's free 

way. 
How dared she lift her pageant crest before 
Th' enduring and magnificent array 
Of sovereign Alps, that winged their eagles with 

the day? 

X. 

This might not long be borne — the tameless hills 
Have voices from the cave and cataract swelling, 
Fraught with His name, whose awful presence 

fills 
Their deep lone places, and forever telling 
That He hath made man free ! — and they whose 

dwelling 
Was on those ancient fastnesses, gave ear; 
The weight of suflerance from their hearts re- 
pelling. 
They rose — the forester, the mountaineer — 
Oh ! what hath earth more strong than the good 
paasant-spear? 

XI. 

Sacred be Grlitli's field — their vigil keeping 
Through many a blue and starry summer-night, 
There, while the sons of happier lairds were 

sleeping. 
Had those brave Switzers met; and in the sight 
Of the just God, who pours forth burning might 
To gird the oppressed, had given their deep 

thoughts way. 
And braced their spirits for the patriot-fight, 
With lovely images of home, that lay 
Bowered 'midst the rustling pines, or by the tor- 
rent-spray. 

XII. 

Now had endurance reached its bounds ! — Thej' 

came 
With courage set in each bright earnest eye, 
The day, the signal, and the hour to name, 
When they should gather on their hills to die, 
Or shake the Glaciers with their joyous cry 
For the land's freedom. — 'Twas a scene com- 
bining 
All glory in itself — the solemn sky. 
The stars, the waves their softened Ught enshrin- 
ing. 
And Man's high soul supreme o'er mighty Nature 
shining. 



THE LEAGUE OF THE ALPS. 



101 



XIII. 

Calmly they stood, and with collected mien, 
Breathing their souls in voices firm but low, 
As if the spirit of the hour and scene, 
With the wood's whisper, and the wave's sweet 

flow, 
Had tempered in their thoughtful hearts the 

glow 
Of all indignant feeling. To the breath 
Of Dorian flute, and lyre-note soft and slow, 
E'en thus, of old, the Spartan from its sheath 
Drew his devoted sword, and girt Iiimsclf for death. 

XIV. 

And three, that seemed as chieftains of the band. 
Were gathered in the midst on that lone shore 
By Uri's lake— a father of the land,(3) 
One on his brow the silent record wore 
Of many days, whose shadows had passed o'er 
His path amongst the hills, and quenched the 

dreams 
Of youth with sorrow. — Yet from memory's lore 
Still his life's evening drew its loveliest gleams, 
For he had walked with God, beside the mountain 

streams. 

XV. 

And his gray hairs, in happier times, might well 
To their last pillow silently have gone. 
As melts a wreath of snow. — But who shall tell 
How life may task the spirit? — He was one, 
Who from its morn a freeman's work had done. 
And reaped his harvest, and his vintage pressed. 
Fearless of wrong ; — and now, at set of sun. 
He bowed not to his years, for on the breast 
Of a still chainless land, he deemed it much to rest. 

XVI. 

But for such holy rest strong hands must toil. 
Strong hearts endure I — By that pale elder's side. 
Stood one that seemed a monarch of the soil. 
Serene and stately in his manhood's pride, 
Werner, (4) the brave and true ! — If men have 

died, 
Their hearths and shrines inviolate to keep. 
He was a mate for such. — The voice, that cried 
Within his breast, "Arise!" came still and deep 
From his far home, that smiled, e'en then, in moon- 
light sleep. 

XVII. 

It was a home to die for ! — as it rose, 
Through its vinc-foliage .sending forth a sound 
Of mirthful childhood, o'er the green repose 
And laughing sunshine of the pastures round ; 
And he who.se life to that sweet spot was bound, 
Raised unto Heaven a glad, yet thoughtful eye. 
And set his free step firmer on the ground, 



When o'er his soul its melodies went by, 
As through some Alpine pass, a breeze of Italy. 

XVIII. 
But who was he, that on his hunting-spear 
Leaned with a prouder and more fiery bearing 1 
— His was a brow for tyrant-hearts to fear, 
Within the shadow of its dark locks wearing 
That which they may not tame — a soul declaring 
War against earth's oppressors. — 'Midst that 

throng. 
Of other mould he seemed, and loftier daring, 
One whose blood swept higli impulses along, 
One that should pass, and leave a name for war- 
like song, 

XIX. 

A memory on the mountains ! — one to stand. 
When the hills echoed with the deepening swell 
Of hostile trumpets, foremost for the land, 
And in some rock-defile, or savage dell. 
Array her peasant-children to repel ' 
Th' invader, sending arrows for his chains! 
Ay, one to fold around him, as he fell, 
Her banner with a smile — for through his veins 
The joy of danger flowed, as torrents to the plains. 

XX. 

There was at times a wildness in the light 
Of his quick-flashing eye; a something, born 
Of the free Alps, and beautifully bright, 
And proud, and tameless, laughing fear to scorn! 
It well might be ! — Young Erni's (5) step had 

worn 
The mantling snows on their most regal steeps, 
And tracked the lynx above the clouds of morn, 
And followed where the flying chamois leaps 
Across the dark-blue rifl;s, th' unfathomed glacier- 
deeps. 

XXI. 

He was a creature of the Alpine sky, 
A being, whose bright spirit had been fed 
'Midst the crowned height.s with joy and liberty, 
Aid thoughts of power. — He knew each path 

Vvhich led 
To the rock's treasure caves, whose crystals shed 
Soft; light o'er secret fountains. — At the tone 
Of his loud horn, the Lammer-Geyer(6) had 

spread 
A startled wing ; for oft that peal had blown 
Where the free cataract's voice was wont to sound 

alone. 

XXII. 

His step had tracked the waste, his soul had 

stirred 
The ancient solitudes — his voice had told 



102 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



Of wrongs to call down Heaven.(7) — That tale 

was heard 
In Hash's dales, and where the shepherds fold 
Their flocks in dark ravine and craggy hold 
On the bleak Oberland ; and where the light 
Of Day's last footstep bathes in burning gold 
Great Righi's cliffs; and where Mount Pilate's 

height 
Casts o'er his glassy lake the darloiess of his might. 

XXIII. 

Nor was it heard in vain. — There all things 

press 
High thoughts on man. The fearless hunter 

passed, 
And, from the bosom of the wilderness, 
There leapt a spirit and a power to cast 
The weight of bondage down — and bright and 

fast. 
As the clear waters, joyously and free, 
Burst from the desert rock, it rushed, at last, 
Through the far valleys ; till the patriot-three 
Thus with their brethren stood, beside the Forest 

Sea.(8) 

XXIV. 

They linked their hands, — they pledged their 

stainless faith. 
In the dread presence of attesting Heaven — 
They bound their hearts to suffering and to 

death. 
With the severe and solemn transport given 
To bless such vows.— How man had striven. 
How man might strive, and vainly strive, they 

knew. 
And called upon their God, whose arm had riven 
The crest of many a tyrant, since He blew 
The foaming sea-wave on, and Egypt's might o'er- 

threw. 

XXV. 

They knelt, and rose in strength. — The valleys 

lay 
Still in their dimness, but the peaks which darted 
Into the bright mid-air, had caught from day 
A flush of fire, when those true Switzers flpirted, 
. Each to his glen or forest, steadfast-hearted. 
And full of hope. Not many suns had worn 
Their setting glory, ere from slumber started 
Ten thousand voices, of the mountains born — 
So far was heard the blast of Freedom's echoing 

horn! 

XXVI. 

The ice-vaults trembled, when that peal came 

rending 
The frozen stillness which around them hung ; 
From cliff to cliff the avalanche descending, 
Gave answer, till the sky's blue hollows rung j 



And the flame-signals through the midnight 
sprung. 

From the Surennen rocks like banners stream- 
ing 

To the far Seelisberg ; whence light was flung 

On Griitli's field, till all the red lake gleaming 
Shone out, a meteor-heaven in its wild splendour 
seeming. 

XXVII. 

And the winds tossed each summit's blazing 

crest, 
As a host's plumage ; and the giant pines, 
Felled where they waved o'er crag and eagle's 

nest, 
Heaped up the flames. The clouds grew fiery 

signs. 
As o'er a city's burning towers and shrines 
Reddening the distance. Wine-cups, crowned 

and bright, 
In Werner's dwelling flowed ; through leafless 

vines 
From Walter's hearth streamed forth the festive 

light. 
And Erni's blind old sire gave thanks to Heaven 

that night. 

XXVIII. 

Then, on the silence of the snows there lay 
A Sabbath's quiet sunshine, — and its bell 
Filled the hushed air awhile, with lonely sway; 
For the stream's voice was chained by Winter's 
spell, 
* The deep wood-sounds had ceased. — But rock 
and dell 
Rung forth, ere long, when strains of jubilee 
Pealed from the mountain-churches, with a swell 
Of praise to Him who stills the raging sea, — 
For now the strife was closed, the glorious Alps 
were free. 



NOTES. 

Note 1, page 99, col. I. 

The Senn's wild horn. 

Senn, the name given to a herdsman among the 
Swiss Alps. 

Note 2, page 100, col. 2. 

^Against the Fohnwhid'a blast. 

Fohnwind, the South-east wind, which fre- 
quently lays waste the country before it. 

Note 3, page 101, col. 1. 

K father of the land. 

Walter Fiirst, the father-in-law of Tell. 

Note 4, page 101, col. 1. 
Werner, the brave and true ! &c. 
Werner Stauffacher, who had been urged by his 



THE LEAGUE OP THE ALPS. 



103 



wife to rouse and unite his countrymen for the de- 
liverance of Switzerland. 

Note 5, page 101, col. 2. 

-Young Erni's step had worn, &c. 

Erni, Arnold Melchthal. 

Note 6, page 101, col. 2. 

The LUmmer-Geyor liad spread, &c. 

The Laminer-Geyer, the largest kind of Alpine 
eagle. 



Note 7, page 102, col. 1. 
Of wrongs to call down Heaven, &c. 
The eyes of his aged father had been put out, by 
the orders of the Austrian Governor. 

Note 8, page 102, col. 1. 

Beside the Forest-Sea. 

Forest-Sea. The Lake of the Four Cantons is 
frequently so called. 



Kfit iXtntovation of tlie ^B^vM o€ ^vt to Ktalg* 



Italia, Italia ! O tu cui feo la Sorte 
Dono infclice di bellezza, onde hai 
Fmiesta dote d' intiniti guai, 
Che 'ii fronle scritti per gran dodia porte ; 

Deh, fossi tu men bella, o alnien piu fnrie. 

fiUcaja. 



" But the joy of discovery wras short, and the 
triumph of taste transitory. The French, who in 
every invasion have been the scourge of Italy, and 
have rivalled or rather surpassed the rapacity of 
the Goths and Vandals, laid their sacrilegious 
hands on the unparalleled collection of the Vatican, 
tore its masterpieces from their pedestals, and drag- 
ging them from their temples of marble, transport- 
ed them to Paris, and consigned them to the dull 
sullen halls, or rather stables, of the Louvre." — 
Eustace's Classical Tour through Italy, vol. ii. 
p. 60. 



Land of departed fame ! whose classic plains 
Have proudly echoed to immortal strains ; 
Whose hallowed soil hath given the great and brave, 
Day-stars of life, a birth-place and a grave ; 
Home of the Arts ! where glory's faded smile 
Sheds lingering light o'er many a mouldering pile ; 
Proud wreck of vanished power, of splendour Hed, 
Majestic temple of the mighty dead 1 
Whose grandeur, yet contending with decay. 
Gleams through the twilight of thy glorious day ; 
Though dimmed thy brightness, riveted thy chain, 
Yet, fallen Italy ! rejoice again ! 
Lost, lovely realm ! once more 't is thine to gaze 
On the rich reUcs of sublimer days. 

Awake, ye Muses of Etrurian shades, 
Or sacred Tivoli's romantic glades ; 
Wake, ye that slumbe» in the bowery gloom, 
Where the wild ivy shadows Virgil's tomb ; 
Or ye, whose voice, by Sorga's lonely wave. 
Swelled the deep echoes of the fountain's cave, 
Or thrilled the soul in Tasso's numbers high, 
Those magic strains of love and chivalry ; 
If yet by classic streams ye fondly rove, 
Haunting the myrtle-vale, the laurel-grove ; 



Oh ! rouse once more the daring soul of song, 
Seize with bold hand the harp, forgot so long, 
And hail, with wonted pride, those works revered, 
Hallowed by time, by absence more endeared. 
And breathe to those the strain, whose warrior- 
might. 
Each danger stemmed, prevailed in every fight ; 
Souls of unyielding power, to storms inured, 
Sublimed by peril, and by toil matured. 
Sing of that leader, whose ascendant mind 
Could rouse the slumbering spirit of mankind ; 
Whose banners tracked the vanquished Eagle's 

fliglit 
O'er many a plain, and dark Sierra's height ; 
Who bade once more the wild, heroic lay 
Record the deeds of Ronccsvalles' day ; 
Wh(),tlirough each mountain-pass ofrock and snow, 
An Alpme huntsman, chased the fear-struck foe ; 
Waved his proud standard to the balmy gales, 
Rich Languedoc ! that fan thy glowing vales, 
And 'mid those scenes renewed th' achievements 

high. 
Bequeathed to fame by England's ancestry. 
Yet, when the storm seemed hushed, the conflict 
past. 
One strife remained — the mightiest and the last ! 
Nerved for the struggle, in that fateful hour, 
Untamed Ambition summoned all his power; 
Vengeance and Pride, to frenzy roused, were there, 
And the stern might of resolute Despair. 
Isle of the free! 'twas then thy champions stood, 
Breasting unmoved the combat's wildest flood, 
Sunbeam of Battle, then thy spirit shone. 
Glowed in each breast, and sunk with life alone. 
Oh hearts devoted ! whose illustrious doom, 
Gave there at once your triumph and your tomb, 
Ye, firm and faithful, in th' ordeal tried 
Of that dread strife, by Freedom sanctified ; 



104 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



Shrined, not entombed, ye rest in sacred earth, 
Hallowed by deeds of more than mortal worth. 
What though to mark where sleeps heroic dust. 
No sculptured trophy rise, or breathing bust, 
Yours, on the scene where valor's race was run, 
A prouder sepulchre — the field ye won ! 
There every mead, each cabin's lowly name, 
Shall live a watch-word blended with your fame ; 
And well may flowers suffice those graves to crown, 
That ask no urn to blazon their renown. 
There shall the bard in future ages tread, 
And bless each wreath that blossoms o'er the dead ; 
Revere each tree whose sheltering branches wave 
O'er the low mounds, the altars of the brave ; 
Pause o'er each warrior's grass-grown bed, and hear. 
In every breeze, some name to glory dear. 
And as the shades of twilight close around, 
With martial pageants people all the ground. 
Thither unborn descendants of the slain, 
Shall throng, as pilgrims to some holy fane. 
While as they trace each spot, whose records tell 
Where fought their fathers, and prevailed, and fell. 
Warm in their souls shall loftiest feelings glow, 
Claiming proud kindred with the dust below ! 
And many an age shall see the brave repair, 
To learn the hero's bright devotion there. 

And well, Ausonia ! may that field of fame, 
From thee one song of echoing triumph claim. 
Land of the lyre 1 'twas there th' avenging sword 
Won the bright treasures to thy fanes restored ; 
Those precious trophies o'er thy realms that throw 
A veil of radiance, hiding half thy wo. 
And bid the stranger for awhile forget 
How deep thy fall, and deem thee glorious yet. 

Yes ! fair creations, to perfection wrought, 
Embodied visions of ascending thought ! 
Forms of sublimity ! by Genius traced. 
In tints that vindicate adoring taste ; 
Whose bright originals, to earth unknown. 
Live in the spheres encircling Glory's throne ; 
Models of art, to deathless fame consigned, 
Stamped with the high-born majesty of mind ; 
Yes, matchless works ! your presence shall restore 
One beam of splendour to your native shore. 
And her sad scenes of lost renown illume. 
As the bright sunset gilds some hero's tomb. 

Oh ! ne'er in other climes, though many an eye 
Dwelt on your charms in beaming ecstacy ; 
Ne'er was it yours to bid the soul expand 
With thoughts so mighty, dreams so boldly grand, 
As in that realm, where each faint breeze's moan 
Seems a low dirge for glorious ages gone ; 
Where 'mid the ruined shrines of many a vale, 
E'en Desolation tells a haughty tale, 
And scarce a fountain flows, a rock ascends. 
But its proud name with song eternal blends ! 

Yes! in those scenes, where every ancient stream. 
Bids memory kindle o'er some lofty theme ; 



Where every marble deeds of fame records, 
Each ruin tells of Earth's departed lords ; 
And the deep tones of inspiration swell. 
From each wild olive-wood and Alpine dell ; 
Where heroes slumber, on their battle plains, 
'Mid prostrate altars, and deserted fanes, 
And Fancy communes, in each lonely spot, 
With shades of those who ne'er shall be forgot ; 
There was your home,and there your power imprest. 
With tenfold awe, the pilgrim's glowing breast ; 
And as the wind's deep thrills, and mystic sighs. 
Wake the wild harp to loftiest harmonies, 
Thus at your influence, starting from repose. 
Thought, Feeling, Fancy, into grandeur rose. 

Fair Florence ! Clueen of Arno's lovely vale ! 
Justice and Truth indignant heard thy tale, 
And sternly smiled in retribution's hour. 
To wrest thy treasures from the Spoiler's power. 
Too long the spirits of thy noble dead 
Mourned o'er the domes they reared in ages fled. 
Those classic scenes their pride so richly graced, 
Temples of genius, palaces of taste, 
Too long, with sad and desolated mien, 
Revealed where conquest's lawless track had been; 
Reft of each form with brighter life imbued, 
Lonely they frowned, a desert sohtude. 
Florence ! th' Oppressors noon of pride is o'er, 
Rise in thy pomp again, and weep no more ! 
As one, who, starting at the dawn of day 
From dark illusions, phantoms of dismay, 
With transport heightened by those ills of night, 
Hails the rich glories of expanding light ; 
E'en thus awakening from thy dreams of wo, 
While Heaven's own hues in radiance round thee 

glow, 
With warmer ecstacy 't is thine to trace 
Each tint of beauty, and each line of grace ; 
More bright, more prized, more precious, since 

deplored 
As loved, lost relics, ne'er to be restored. 
Thy grief as hopeless as the tear-drop shed 
By fond affection bending o'er the dead. 
Athens of Italy ! once more are thine 
Those matchless gems of Art's exhaustless mine. 
For thee bright Genius darts his living beam. 
Warm o'er thy shrines the tints of Glory stream, 
And forms august as natives of the sky. 
Rise round each fane in. faultless majesty. 
So chastely perfect, so serenely grand. 
They seem creations of no mortal hand. 

Ye, at whose voice fair Art, with eagle glance, 
Burst in full splendor from her death-like trance; 
Whose rallying call bade slumbering nations wake, 
And daring Intellect his bondage break ; 
Beneath whose eye the Lords of song arose, 
And snatched the Tuscan lyre from long repose, 
And bade its pealing energies resound, 
With power electric, through the realms around ; 



THE RESTORATION OP THE WORKS OF ART TO ITALY. 



105 



Oh ! high in thought, magnificent in soul ! 
Born to inspire, enlighten, and control ; 
Cosmo, Lorenzo ! view your reign once more, 
The shrine where nations mingle to adore ! 
Again th' Enthusiast there, with ardent gaze, 
Shall hail the mighty of departed days : 
Those sovereign spirits, whose commanding mind 
Seems in the marble's breathing mould enshrined; 
Still, with ascendant power, the world to awe, 
Still the deep homage of the heart to draw ; 
To breathe some spell of holiness around, 
Bid all the scene be consecrated ground, 
And from the stone, by Inspiration wrought, 
Dart the pure lightnings of exalted thought. 

There thou, fair offspring of immortal Mind! 
Love's radiant Goddess, Idol of mankind! 
Once the bright object of Devotion's vow, 
Shalt claim from taste a kindred worship now. 
Oh! who can tell what beams of heavenly light 
Flashed o'er the sculptor's intellectual sight, 
How many a glimpse, revealed to him alone, 
Made brighter beings, nobler worlds his own ; 
Ere, like some vision sent the earth to bless. 
Burst into life thy pomp of loveliness ! 
Young Genius there, while dwells his kindling 
eye 
On forms, instinct with bright divinity. 
While new-born powers, dilating in his heart, 
Embrace the full magnificence of Art ; 
From scenes by Rapjiael's gifted hand arrayed. 
From dreams of heaven, by Angelo portrayed; 
From each fair work of Grecian skill sublime. 
Sealed with perfection, ' sanctified by time ;' 
Shall catch a kindred glow, and proudly feel 
His spirit burn with emulative zeal. 
Buoyant with loftier hopes his soul shall rise. 
Imbued at once with nobler energies; 
O'er life's dim scenes on rapid pinion soar, 
And worlds of visionary grace explore, 
Till his bold hand give glory's day-dreams birth. 
And with new wonders charm admiring earth. 
Venice, exult ! and o'er thy moonlight seas, 
Swell with gay strains each Adriatic breeze ! 
What though long fled those years of martial fame. 
That shed romantic lustre o'er thy name; 
Though to the winds thy streamers idly play. 
And the wild waves another GLueen obey; 
Though quenched the spirit of thine ancient race, 
And power and freedom scarce have left a trace ; 
Yet still shall Art her splendours round thee cast, 
And gild the wreck of years for ever past. 
Again thy fanes may boast a Titian's dyes, 
Whose clear, soft brilliance emulates thy skies, 
And scenes that glow in coloring's richest bloom. 
With life's warm flush Palladian halls illume. 
From thy rich dome again th' unrivalled steed 
Starts to existence, rushes into speed. 
Still for Lysippus claims the wreath of fame, 
Panting with ardor, vivified with flame. 



Proud Racers of the Sun ! to fancy's thought, 
Burning with spirit, from his essence caught, 
No mortal birth ye seem — but formed to bear 
Heaven's car of triumph through the realms of air ; 
To range uncurbed the pathless fields of space, 
The winds your rivals in the glorious race ; 
Traverse empyreal spheres with buoyant feet. 
Free as the zephyr, as the shot star fleet ; 
And waft through worlds unknown the vital ray, 
The flame that wakes creations into day. 
Creatures of fire and ether! winged with light, 
To track the regions of the Infinite ! 
From purer elements whose life was drawn, 
Sprung from the sunbeam, offspring of the dawn. 
What years on years, in silence gliding by, 
Have spared those forms of perfect symmetry ! 
Moulded by Art to dignify alone 
Her own bright deity's resplendent throne, 
Since first her skill their fiery grace bestowed, 
Meet for such lofty fate, such high abode, 
How many a race, whose tales of glory seem 
An echo's voice — the music of a dream. 
Whose records feebly from oblivion save 
A few bright traces of the wise and brave ; 
How many a state, whose pillared strength sub- 
lime. 
Defied the storms of war, the waves of time. 
Towering o'er earth majestic and alone. 
Fortress of power — has flourished and is gone! 
And they, from clime to clime by conquest borne. 
Each fleeting triumph destined to adorn. 
They, that of powers and kingdoms lost and won, 
Have seen the noontide and the setting sun. 
Consummate still in every grace remain, 
As o'er their heads had ages rolled in vain ! 
Ages, victorious, in their ceaseless flight. 
O'er countless monuments of earthly might! 
While she, from fair Byzantium's lost domain, 
Who bore those treasures to her ocean-reign, 
'Midst the blue deep, who reared her island- 
throne. 
And called th' infinitude of waves her own ; 
Venice the proud, the Regent of the sea. 
Welcomes in chains the trophies of the free ! 
And thou, whose Eagle's towering plume uiv 
furled. 
Once cast its shadow o'er a vassal world. 
Eternal city! round whose Curule throne 
The lords of nations knelt in ages flown ; 
Thou, whose Augustan years have left to time 
Immortal records of their glorious prime : 
When deathless bards, thine olive-shades among. 
Swelled the high raptures of heroic song ; 
Fair, fallen empress ! raise thy languid head 
From the cold altars of th' illustrious dead. 
And once again, with fond delight, survey 
The proud memorials of thy noblest day. 

Lo ! where thy sons, oh Rome ! a godlike train, 
In imaged majesty return again ! 



106 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



Bards, chieftains, monarchs, tower with mien au- 
gust. 
O'er scenes that shrine their venerable dust. 
Those forms, those features, luminous with soul. 
Still o'er thy children seem to claim control; 
With awful grace arrest the pilgrim's glance, 
Bind his rapt soul in elevating trance, 
And bid the past, to fancy's ardent eyes. 
From time's dim sepulchre in glory rise. 

Souls of the lofty! whose undying names. 
Rouse the young bosom still to noblest aims ; 
Oh ! with your images could fate restore 
Your own high spirit to your sons once more ; 
Patriots and heroes ! could those flames return. 
That bade your hearts with freedom's ardours burn; 
Then from the sacred ashes of the first. 
Might a new Rome in phoenix-grandeur hurst ! 
With one bright glance dispel th' horizon's gloom, 
With one loud call wake Empire from the tomb ; 
Bind round her brows her own triumphal crown. 
Lift her dread ^gis with majestic frown, 
Unchain her Eagle's wing, and guide his flight, 
To bathe its plumage in the fount of light. 

Vain dream ! degraded Rome ! thy noon is o'er, 
Once lost, thy spirit shall revive no more. 
It sleeps with those, the sons of other days, 
Who fixed on thee the world's adoring gaze ; 
Those, blest to live, while yet thy star was high. 
More blest, ere darkness quenched its beam, to die! 

Yet, though thy faithless tutelary powers, 
Have fled thy shrines, left desolate thy towers, 
Still, still to thee shall nations bend their way, 
Revered in ruin, sovereign in decay ! 
Oh ! what can realms, in fame's full zenith, boast, 
To match the relics of thy splendour lost ! 
By Tiber's waves, on each illustrious hill, 
Genius and Taste shall love to wander still, 
For there has Art survived an empire's doom. 
And reared her throne o'er Latium's trophied tomb ; 
She from the dust recalls the brave and free. 
Peopling each scene with beings worthy thee ! 

Oh ! ne'er again may War, with lightning-stroke. 
Rend its last honours from the shattered oak ! 
Long be those works, revered by ages, thine, 
To lend one triumph to thy dim decline. 

Bright with stern beauty, breathing wrathful 
fire 
In all the grandeur of celestial ire. 
Once more thine own, th' unmortal Archer's form. 
Sheds radiance round, with more than Being warml 
Oh ! who could view, nor deem that perfect frame, 
A living temple of ethereal flame 1 
Lord of the day-star ! how may words portray 
Of thy chaste glory one reflected ray"? 
Whate'er the soul could dream, the hand could 

trace. 
Of regal dignity, and heavenly grace ; 
Each purer effluence of the fair and bright, 
Whose fitful gleams have broke on mortal sight; 



Each bold idea, borrowed from the sky, 

To vest th' embodied form of deity; 

All, all in thee ennobled and refined, 

Breathe and enchant, transcend an tly combined! 

Son of Elysium I years and ages gone 

Have bowed, in speechless homage, at thy throne, 

And days unborn, and nations yet to be, 

Shall gaze, absorbed in ecstacy, on thee ! 

And thou, triumphant wreck, (1) e'en yet sub- 
lime. 
Disputed trophy, claimed by Art and Time, 
Elail to that scene again, where Genius caught 
From thee its fervours of diviner thought ! 
Where he, th' inspired one, whose gigantic mind 
Lived in some sphere, to him alone assigned ; 
Who from the past, the future, and th' unseen. 
Could call up forms of more than earthly mien; 
Unrivalled Angelo, on thee would gaze. 
Till his full soul imbibed perfection's blaze ! 
And who but he, that Prince of Art, might dare 
Thy sovereign greatness view without despair? 
Emblem of Rome! from power's meridian hurled. 
Yet claiming still the homage of the world. 

What hadst thou been, ere barbarous hands de- 
faced 
The work of wonder, idolized by taste 1 
Oh ! worthy still of some divine abode, 
Mould of a conquerer !(2) ruin of a god ! 
Still, like some broken gem, whose quenchless 

beam 
From each bright fragment pours its vital stream, 
'Tis thine, by fate unconquered, to dispense 
From every part, some ray of excellence ! 
E'en yet, informed with essence from on high, 
Thine is no trace of frail mortality 1 
Within that frame a purer being glows, 
Through viewless veins a brighter current flows; 
Filled with immortal life each muscle swells, 
In every line supernal grandeur dwells. 

Consummate work ! the noblest and the last. 
Of Grecian Freedom,(3) ere her reign was past. 
Nurse of the mighty, she, while lingering still 
Her mantle flowed o'er many a classic hill. 
Ere yet her voice its parting accents breathed, 
A Hero's image to the world bequeathed ; 
Enshrined in thee th' imperishable ray. 
Of high-souled Genius, fostered by her sway, 
And bade thee teach, to ages yet unborn. 
What lofty dreams were hers — who never shall re- 
turn 1 

And mark yon group, transfixed with many a 
throe, 
Sealed with the image of eternal wo : 
With fearful truth, terrific power, exprest. 
Thy pangs, Laocoon, agonize the breast, 
And the stern combat picture to mankind, 
Of suffering nature, and enduring mind. 
Oh, mighty conflict ! though his pains intense 
Distend each nerve, and dart through every sense ; 



THE RESTORATION OF THE WORKS OP ART TO ITALY. 



107 



Though fixed on him, his children's suppliant eyes 
Implore the aid avenging fate denies ; 
Though, with the giant-snake in fruitless strife 
Heaves every muscle with convulsive life, 
And in each limb Existence writhes, enrolled 
'Mid the dread circles of the venomed fold ; 
Yet the strong spirit lives — and not a cry 
Shall own the might of Nature's agony! 
That furrowed brow unconquered soul reveals, 
That patient eye to angry Heaven appeals. 
That struggUng bosom concentrates its breath, 
Nor yields one moan to torture or to death !(4) 

Sublimest triumph of intrepid Art! 
With speecliless horror to congeal the heart. 
To freeze each pulse, and dart through every vein 
Cold thrills of fear, keen sympathies of pain ; 
Yet teach the spirit how its lofty power 
May brave the pangs of fate's severest hour. 

Turn from such conflicts, and enraptured gaze 
On scenes where Painting all her skill displays: 
Landscapes, by colouring drest in richer dyes, 
More mellowed sunshine, more unclouded skies ; 
Or dreams of bliss, to dying Martyrs given, 
Descending Seraphs robed in beams of heaven. 

Oh ! sovereign Masters of the Pencil's might, 
Its depth of shadow, and its blaze of light. 
Ye, whose bold thought, disdaining every bound, 
Explored the worlds above, below, around, 
Children of Italy! who stand alone, 
And unapproached, 'midst regions all your own; 
What scenes, what beings blest your favoured 

sight. 
Severely grand, unutterably bright! 
Triumphant spirits ! your exulting eye 
Could meet the noontide of eternity, 
And gaze untired, undaunted, uncontrolled 
On all that Fancy trembles to behold. 

Bright on your view such forms their splendour 
shed. 
As burst on Prophet-bards in ages fled : 
Forms that to trace, no hand but yours might dare, 
Darkly sublime, or exquisitely fair, 
These o'er the walls your magic skill arrayed. 
Glow in rich sunshine, gleam through melting 

shade, 
Float in light grace, in awful greatness tower. 
And breathe and move, the records of your power. 
Ins[)ired of Heaven ! what heightened pomp ye cast. 
O'er all the deathless trophies of the past ! 
Round many a marble fane and classic dome. 
Asserting still the majesty of Rome; 
Round many a work that bids the world believe 
What Grecian Art could image and achieve ; 
Again, creative minds, your visions throw 
Life's chastened warmth, and Beauty's mellowest 

glow, 
And when the morn's bright beams and mantling 

dyes 
Pour the rich lustre of Ausonian skies, 



Or evening suns illume, with purple smile. 
The Parian altar, and the pillared aisle, 
Then as the full, or softened radiance falls. 
On Angel-groups that hover o'er the walls, 
Well may those Temples, where your hand has 

shed 
Light o'er the tomb, existence round the dead. 
Seem like some world, so perfect and so fair, 
That nought of earth should find admittance there. 
Some sphere, where Beings, to mankind unknown, 
Dwell in the brightness of their pomp, alone! 

Hence, ye vain fictions, fancy's erring theme, 
Gods of illusion! phantoms of a dream! 
Frail, powerless idols of departed time, 
Fables of song, delusive, though sublime ! 
To loftier tasks has Roman Art assigned 
Her matchless pencil, and her mighty mind ! 
From brighter streams her vast ideas flowed, 
With purer fire her ardent spirit glowed. 
To her 't was given in fancy to explore 
The land of miracles, the holiest shore ; 
That realm where first the fight of life was sent, 
The loved, the punished, of th' Omnipotent ! 
O'er Judah's hills her thoughts inspired would 

stray. 
Through Jordan's valleys trace their lonely way, 
By Siloa's brook, or Almotana's(5) deep, 
Chained in dead silence, and unbroken sleep; 
Scenes whose cleft rocks, and blasted deserts, tell 
Where passed th' Eternal, where his anger fell ! 
Where oft his voice the words of fate revealed. 
Swelled in the whirlwind, in the thunder pealed. 
Or heard by prophets in some palmy vale. 
Breathed 'still small' whispers on the midnight 

gale. 
There dwelt her spirit — there her hand portrayed, 
'Mid the lone wilderness or cedar-shade, 
Ethereal forms, with awful missions fraught, 
Or Patriarch-seers, absorbed in sacred thought, 
Bards, in high converse with the world of rest. 
Saints of the earth, and spirits of the blest. 
But chief to Him, the Conqueror of the grave, 
Who lived to guide us, and who died to save; 
Him, at whose glance the powers of evil fled. 
And soul returned to animate the dead; 
Whom the waves owned — and sunk beneath his 

eye. 
Awed by one accent of Divinity; 
To Him she gave her meditative hours. 
Hallowed her thoughts, and sanctified her powers. 
O'er the bright scenes sublime repose she threw, 
As all around the Godhead's presence knew, 
And robed the Holy One's benignant mien 
In beaming mercy, majesty serene. 

Oh ! mark, where Raphael's pure and perfect 

line 
Portrays that form ineffably divine !(C) 
Where with transcendant skill his hand has shed 
Diffusive sunbeams round the Saviour's head; 



108 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



Each heaven-illumined lineament imbued 
With all tlie fulness of beatitude, 
And traced the sainted group, whose mortal sight 
Sinks overpowered by that excess of hght! 

Gaze on that scene, and own the might of Art, 
By truth inspired to elevate the heart ! 
To bid the soul exultingly possess, 
Of all her powers a heightened consciousness, 
And strong in hope, anticipate the day. 
The last of life, the first of freedom's ray; 
To reahze, in some unclouded sphere. 
Those pictured glories feebly imaged here 1 
Dim, cold reflections from her native sky. 
Faint efiluence of " the Day-spring from on high !" 



NOTES. 



Note 1, page 106, col. 2. 

The Belvidere Torso, the favourite study of 
Michael Angelo, and of many other distinguished 
artists. 

Note 2, page 106, col. 2, 

" Gluoique cette statue d'Hercule ait ete mal- 
traitee et mutilee d'une maniere etrange, se trou- 
vant sans tete, sans bras, et sans jambes, elle est 
cependant encore un chef-d'oeuvre aux yeux des 
connoisseurs ; et ceux qui savent percer dans les 
mysteres de Fart, Se la representent dans toute sa 
beaute. L'artiste, en voulant representer Hercule, 
a forme un corps ideal au-dessus de la nature. 
* * * Get Hercule paroit done ici tel qu'il dut etre, 
lorsque, purifie par le feu des foiblesses de I'huma- 
nite, il obtint I'immortalite, et prit place aupres 
des dieux. II est represente sans aucun besoin 
de nourriture et de reparation de forces. Les 
veines y sent toutes invisibles." — Winckclmann, 
Histoire de I'Art chez les Anciens, torn. ii. p. 248. 



Note 3, page 106, col. 2. 

"Le Torso d'Hercule paroit un des derniers 
ouvragcs parfaits que I'art ait produit en Grece, 
avant la perte de sa liberte. Car apres que la 
Grece fut reduite en province Romaine, I'histoire 
ne fliit mention d'aucun artiste celebre de cette 
nation, jusqu'aux temps du Triumvirat Remain." 
JVinckelmann, ibid. torn. ii. p. 250. 

Note 4, page 107, col. 1. 

" It is not, in the same manner, in the agonized 
limbs, or in the convulsed muscles of the Laocoon, 
tliat the secret grace of its composition resides; it 
is in the majestic air of the head, which has not 
yielded to siifering, and in the deep serenity of 
the forehead, which seems to be still superior to 
all its afflictions, and significant of a mind that can 
not be subdued." — Allison's Essays, vol. ii. p. 400. 

" Laocoon nous offre le spectacle de la nature 
humaine dans la plus grande douleur dont elle 
soit susceptible, sous I'image d'homme qui tache 
de rassembler centre elle toute la force de I'esprit. 
Tandis que I'exces de la souffrance enfle les mus- 
cles, et tire violemment les nerfs, le courage se 
montre sur le front gonfle : la poitrine s'eleve avec 
peine par la necessite de la respiration, qui est 
egalement contrainte par le silence que la force de 
I'ame impose a la douleur qu'elle voudroit etouffer. 
* * * Son air est plaintif, et non criard. * * * ♦ 
Winckelmann, ibid. torn. ii. p. 214. 

Note 5, page 107, col. 2. 

Almotana. The name given by the Arabs to 
the Dead Sea. 

Note 6, page 107, col. 2. 
The Transfiguration, thought to be so perfect a 
specimen of art, that, in honour of Raphael, it was 
carried before his body to the grave. 



TALES AND HISTORIC SCENES. 



109 



Kaltu annMwiovit ^ttnt^. 



Lc Maurc ne so venge pas parce que sa colore 
dure encore, mais parce que la vengeance seule 
peut ccarter tie sa tote le poids d'infaniie dont il 
est accable. — II se vcnge, parce qu'a scs ycux il 
n'y a qu'unc ame basse qui puisse pardonner les 
affronts; et il nourrit sa rancune, parce- que s'il la 
scntoit s'eteindre, il croiroit avec elle, avoir perdu 
une vertu. Sismondi, 



The events with which the following tale is in- 
terwoven are related in the "Historia de las Guer^ 
ras Civiles de Granada." They occurred in the 
reign of Abo Abdcli or Abdali, the last Moorish 
king of that city, called by the Spaniards El Rey 
Chico. The conquest of Granada, by Ferdinand 
and Isabella, is said, by some historians, to have 
been greatly- facilitated by the Abencerrages, 
whose defection was tlie result of the repeated in 
juries they had received from the king at th( 
instigation of the Zegris. One of the most beau 
tifiil halls of the Alhamlira is pointed out as the 
scene where so many of the former celebrated 
tribe were massacred; and it still retains their 
name, being called the " Sala de los Abencerra- 
ges." Many of the most interesting old Spanish 
ballads relate to the events of this chivalrous and 
romantic period. 



THE ABENCERRAGE. 



CANTO I. 

Lonely and still are now thy marble halls. 
Thou fair Alhambra! there the feast is o'er; 

And with the murmur of thy fountain-falls, 
Blend the wild notes of minstrelsy no more. 

Hushed are the voices, that, in years gone by. 
Have mourned, exulted, menaced, through thy 
towers ; 

Within thy pillared courts the grass waves high, 
And all uncultured bloom thy fairy bowers. 

Unheeded there the flowering myrtle blows, 



Some charmed abode of beings all unknown, 
•Powerful and viewless, children of the air. 

For there no footstep treads th' enchanted ground, 
There not a sound the deep repose pervades, 

Save winds and founts diflusing freshness round, 
Through the light domes and graceful colon- 
nades. 

Far other tones have swelled those courts along, 
In days romance yet fondly loves to trace; 

The clash of arms, the voice of choral song, 
The revels, combats, of a vanished race. 

And yet awhile, at Fancy's potent call. 

Shall rise that race, the chivalrous, the bold ! 

Peopling once more each fair, forsaken hall, 
With stately fopns, the knights and chiefs of old. 

— The sun declines — upon Nevada's height 
There dwells a mellow flush of rosy light; 
Each soaring pinnacle of mountain snow 
Smiles in the richness of that parting glow, 
And Darro's wave reflects each passing dye 
That melts and mingles in th' empurpled sky. 
Fragrance, exhaled from rose and citron bower. 
Blends with the dewy freshness of the hour: 
Hu.shed are the winds, and Nature seems to sleep 
In light and stillness; wood, and tower, and steep, 
Are dyed with tints of glory, only given 
To the rich evening of a southern heaven ; 
Tints of the sun, whose bright farewell is fraught 
With all that art hath dreamt, but never caught. 
— Yes, Nature sleeps ; but not with her at rest 
The fiery passions of the human breast. 
Hark! from th' Alhambra's towers what stormy 

sound. 
Each moment deepening, wildly swells around ! 
Those are no tumults of a festal throng. 
Not the light zambra.(l) nor the choral song : 
The combat rages — t is the shout of war, 
'Tis the loud clash of shield and scymetar. 
Within the hall of Lions, (2) where the rays 
Of eve, yet lingering, on the fountain blaze ; 
There, girt and guarded by his Zegri bands. 
And stern in wrath, the Moorish monarch stands ; 
There the strife centres — swords around him wave; 



Through tall arcades unmarked the sunbeam ' '^^'^'^^ ^^^'"^ ^^^ ^=''''^"' ^^^^"^ contend the brave, 



smiles, 
And many a tint of softened brilliance throws 
O'er fretted walls, and shining peristyles. 

And well might Fancy deem thy fabrics lone, 
So vast, so silent, and so wildly fair, 
17 



i While echoing domes return the battle-cry, 
j " Revenge and freedom ! let the tyrant die 1" 
[ And onward rushing, and prevailing still, 
■ Court, hall, and tower the fierce avengers fill. 
j But first and bravest of that gallant train, 
[ Where foes are mightiest, charging ne'er in vain ; 



no 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



In his red hand the sabre glancing bright, 
His dark eye flashing with a fiercer light, 
Ardent, untired, scarce conscious that he bleeds. 
His Aben-Zurrahs(3) there young Hamet leads ; 
"While swells his voice that wild acclaim on high, 
" Revenge and freedc-n ! let the tyrant die!" 

Yes, trace the footsteps of the warrior's wrath. 
By helm and corselet shattered in his path ; 
And by the thickest harvest of the slain, 
And by the marble's deepest crimson stain : 
Search through the serried fight, where loudest 

cries 
From triumph, anguish, or despair arise ; 
And brightest where the shivering falchions glare. 
And where the ground is reddest — he is there. 
Yes, that young man, amidst the Zegri host. 
Hath well avenged a sire, a brother, lost. 
They perished — not as heroes should have died, 
On the red field in victory's hour of pride, 
In all the glow and sunshine of their fame, 
And proudly smiling as the death-pang came : 
Oh ! had they thus expired, a warrior's tear 
Had flowed, almost in triumph, o'er their bier. 
For thus alone the brave should weep for those, 
Who brightly pass in glory to repose. 
— Not such their fate — a tyrant's stern command 
Doomed them to fall by some ignoble hand. 
As, with the flower of all their high-born race. 
Summoned Abdallah's royal feast to grace, 
Fearless in heart, no dream of danger nigh. 
They sought the banquet's gilded hall — to die. 
Betrayed, unarmed, they fell — the fountain wave 
Flowed crimson with the life-blood of the brave, 
Till far the fearful tidings of their fate 
Through the wide city rung from gate to gate, 
And of that lineage each surviving son 
Rushed to the scene where vengeance might be 
won. 
For this young Hamet mingles in the strife, 
Leader of battle, prodigal of life. 
Urging his followers, till their foes, beset. 
Stand faint and breathless, but undaunted yet. 
Brave Aben-Zurrahs, on ! one effort more. 
Yours is the triumph, and the conflict o'er. 

But lo ! descending o'er the darkened hall, 
The twilight shadows fast and deeply fall, 
Nor yet the strife hath ceased — though scarce they 

know. 
Through that thick gloom, the brother from the foe; 
Till the moon rises with her cloudless ray. 
The peaceful moon, and gives them light to slay. 
Where lurks Abdallahl — 'midst his yielding train 
They seek the guilty monarch, but in vain ; 
He Ues not numbered with the valiant dead, 
His champions round him have not vainly bled ; 
' But when the twilight spread her shadowy veil. 
And his last warriors found each clTort fail, 
In wild despair he fled — a trusted few. 
Kindred in crime, are still in danger true ; 



And o'er the scene of many a martial deed, 
The Vega's(4) green expanse, his flying footsteps 

lead. ^ 

He passed th' Alhambra's calm and lovely bowers, 
Where slept the glistening leaves and folded flowers 
In dew. and starlight — there, Irom grot and cave 
Gushed in wild music many a sparkling wave ; 
There, on each breeze, the breath of fragrance rose, 
And all was freshness, beauty, and repose. 

But thou, dark monarch ; in thy bosom reign 
Storms that, once roused, shall never sleep again. 
Oh ! vainly bright is Nature in the course 
Of him who flies from terror or remorse ! 
A spell is round him which obscures her bloom, 
And dims her skies with shadows of the tomb ; 
There smiles no Paradise on earth so fair. 
But guilt will raise avenging phantoms there. 
Abdallah heeds not though the light gale roves 
Fraught with rich odour, stolen from orange-groves, 
Hears not the sound from wood and brook that rise, 
Wild notes of Nature's vesper melodies ; 
Marks not, how lovely, on the mountain's head, 
Moonlight and snow their mingling lustre spread ; 
But urges onward, till his weary band, 
Worn with their toil, a moment's pause demand. 
He stops, and turning, on Granada's fanes 
In silence gazing, fixed awhile remains ; 
In stern, deep silence — o'er his feverish brow, 
And burning cheek, pure breezes freshly blow, 
But waft, in fitful murmurs, from afar. 
Sounds, indistinctly fearful, — as of war. 
What meteor bursts, with sudden blaze, on high. 
O'er the blue clearness of the starry sky 7 
Awful it rises like some Genie-form, 
Seen 'midst the redness of the desert stonn,(5) 
Magnificently dread — above, below. 
Spreads the wild splendour of its deepening glow, 
Lo ! from th' Alhambra's towers the vivid glare 
Streams through the still transparence of the air ; 
Avenging crowds have lit the mighty pyre, 
Which feeds that waving pyramid of fire ; 
And dome and minaret, river, wood, and height, 
From dim perspective start to ruddy Hght. 

Oh Heaven 1 the anguish of Abdallah's soul, 
The rage, though fruitless, yet beyond controul ! 
Yet must he cease to gaze, and raving fly 
For life — such life as makes it bliss to die ! 
On yon green height, the mosque, but half revealed 
Through cypress-groves, a safe retreat may yield. 
Thither his steps are bent — yet oft he turns, 
Watchingthat fearful beacon as it burns. 
But paler grow the sinking flames at last. 
Flickering they fade, their crimson light is past, 
And spiry vapours, rising o'er the scene, 
Mark where the terrors of their wrath have been. 
And now his feet have reached that lonely pile, 
Where grief and terror may repose awhile ; 
Embowered it stands, 'midst wood and Cliff on high, 
Through the gray rocks a torrent sparkling nigh ; 



TALES AND HISTORIC SCENES. 



Ill 



He hails the scene wlierc every care should cease, 
And all— exce{)t the heart he brings — is peace. 

There is deep stillness in those halls of state, 
Where the loud cries of conilict rung so late ; 
Stillness like that, when fierce the Kamsin's blast 
Hath o'er the dweUings of the desert passed.(6) 
Fearful the calm — nor voice, nor step, nor breath, 
Disturbs that scene of beauty and of death : 
Those vaulted roofs re-echo not a sound, 
Save the wild gush of waters — murmuring round, 
In ceaseless melodies of plaintive tone. 
Through chambers peopled by the dead alone. 
O'er the mosaic floors, with carnage red. 
Breastplate and shield, and cloven helm are spread 
In mingled fragments — glittering to the light 
Of yon still moon, whose rays, yet softly bright, 
Their streaming lustre tremulously shed. 
And smile, in placid beauty, o'er the dead: 
O'er features, where the fiery spirits trace. 
E'en death itself is powerless to eflace. 
O'er those who, flushed with ardent youth, awoke. 
When glowing morn in bloom and radiance broke. 
Nor dreamt how near the dark and frozen sleep, 
Which hears not Glory call, nor Anguish weep, 
In the low silent house, tiic narrow spot, 
Home of forgetfulncss: — and soon forgot. 

But slowly fade the stars — the night is o'er — 
Morn beams on those who hail her light no more; 
Slumbcrers, who ne'er shall wake on earth again, 
Mourners, who called the loved, the lost, in 

vain. 
Yet smiles the day — oh ! not for mortal tear 
Doth Nature deviate from her calm career, 
Nor is the earth less laughing or less fair, . 
Tjiough breaking hearts her gladness may not 

share. 
O'er the cold urn the beam of summer glows, 
O'er fields of blood the zephyr freshly blows ; 
Bright shines the sun, though all be dark below, 
And skies arch cloudless o'er a world of wo. 
And flowers renewed in spring's green pathway 

bloom. 
Alike to grace the banquet and the tomb. 

Within Granada's walls the funeral rite 
Attends that day of loveliness and light; 
And jnany a chief, with dirges and with tears, 
Is gathered to the brave of other years: 
And Hamet, as beneath the cypress-shade 
His martyred brother and his sire are laid. 
Feels every deep resolve , and burning thought 
Of ampler vengeance, e'en to passion wrought; 
Yet is the hour afar — and he must brood 
O'er those dark dreams awhile in solitude. 
Tumult and rage are hushed — another day 
In still solemnity hath passed away. 
In that deep slumber of exhausted wrath, 
The calm that follows in the tempest's path. 

And now Abdallah leaves yon peaceful fane, 
His ravaged city traversing again. i 



No sound of gladness his approach precedes, 
No splendid pageant the procession leads ; 
Where'er he moves the silent streets along. 
Broods a stern quiet o'er the sullen throng; 
No voice is heard — but in each altered eye. 
Once brightly beaming when his steps were nigh, 
And in each look of those whose love hath fled 
From all on earth to slumber with the dead, 
Those, by his guilt made desolate, and thrown 
On the bleak wilderness of life alone, 
In youth's quick glance of scarce dissembled rage, 
And the pale mien of cahnly-mournful age, 
May well be read a dark and fearful tale 
Of thought that ill th' indignant heart can veil. 
And passion, like the hushed volcano's power, 
That waits in stillness its appointed hour. 

No more the clarion, from Granada's walls 
Heard o'er the Vega, to the tourney calls; 
No more her graceful daughters, throned on high, 
Bend o'er the lists the darkly radiant eye; 
Silence and gloom her palaces o'crspread, 
And song is hushed, and pageantry is fled. 
— Weep, fated city ! o'er thy heroes weep — 
Low in the dust the sons of glory sleep; 
Furled are their banners in the lonely hall, 
Their trophicd shields hang mouldering on the 

wall, 
Wildly their chargers range the pastures o'er. 
Their voice in battle shall be heard no more ; 
And they, who still thy tyrant's wrath survive, 
Whom he hath wronged too deeply to forgive, 
That race, of lineage high, of worth approved. 
The chivalrous, the princely, the beloved; 
Thine Aben-Zurrahs — they no more shall wield 
In thy proud cause the conquering lance and . 

shield : 
Condcnmed to bid the cherished scenes farewell 
Where the loved ashes of their fathers dwell, 
And far o'er foreign plains, as exiles, roam. 
Their land the desert, and the grave their home. 
Yet there is one shall see that race depart. 
In deep, though silent, agony of heart ; 
One whose dark fate must be to mourn alone. 
Unseen her sorrows, and their cause unknown. 
And veil her heart, and teach her cheek to wear 
That smile, in which the spirit hath no share ; 
Like the bright beams that shed their fruitless 

glow 
O'er the cold solitude of Alpine snow. 

Soft, fresh, and silent, is the midnight hour, 
And the young Zayda seeks her lonely bower; 
That Zegri maid, within whose gentle mind 
One name is deeply, secretly enshrined. 
That name in vain stern Reason wculd efTace, 
Hamet! 'tis thine, thou foe to all her race! 
And yet not hers in bitterness to prove 
The sleepless pangs of unrequited love ; 
Pangs, which the rose of wasted youth consume 
And make the heart of all delight the tomb, 



113 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



Check the free spirit in its eagle-flight, 
And the spring-morn of early genius blight ; 
Not such her grief — though now she wakes to 

weep, 
While tearless eyes enjoy the honey-dews of 

sleep.(7) 
A step treads hghtly through the citron-shade, 
Lightly but by the rustling leaves betrayed — 
Doth her young hero seek that well known spot. 
Scene of past hours that ne'er may be forgot 1 
'Tis he — but changed that eye whose glance of 

fire 
Could, hke a sunbeam, hope and joy inspire. 
As, luminous with youth, with ardour fraught, 
It spoke of glory to the inmost thought ; 
Thence the bright spirit's eloquence hath fled. 
And in its wild expression may be read 
Stern thoughts and fierce resolves — now veiled in 

shade. 
And now in characters of fire portrayed. 
Changed e'n his voice: — as thus its mournful tone 
Wakes in her heart each feeUng of his own. 
"Zayda, my doom is fixed — another day, 
And the wronged exile shall be far away ; 
Far from the scenes where still his heart must be. 
His home of youth, and, more than all — from 

thee. 
Oh ! what a cloud hath gathered o'er my lot, 
Since last we met on this fair tranquil spot ! 
Lovely as then, the soft and silent hour. 
And not a rose hath faded from thy bower; 
But I — my hopes the tempest hath o'erthrown, 
And changed my heart, to all but thee alone. 
Farewell, high thoughts I inspiring hopes of praise, 
Heroic visions of my early days! 
In me the glories of my race must end, 
The exile hath no country to defend ! 
E'en in life's morn, my dreams of pride are o'er. 
Youth's buoyant spirit wakes for me no more. 
And one wild feeling in my altered breast 
Broods darkly o'er the ruins of the rest. 
Yet fear not thou— to thee, in good or ill. 
The heart, so sternly tried, is faithful still! 
But when my steps are distant, and my name 
Thou hear'st no longer in the song of fame, 
When Time steals on, in silence to efface 
Of early love each pure and sacred trace. 
Causing our sorrows and our hopes to seem 
But as the moonlight pictures of a dream. 
Still shall thy soul be with me, in the truth 
And all the fervor of affection's youth 1 
— If such thy love, one beam of heaven shall play 
In lonely beauty, o'er thy wanderer's way." 

"Ask not, if such my love! oh! trust the mind 
To grief so long, so silently resigned ! 
Let the Ught spirit, ne'er by sorrow taught 
The pure and lofty constancy of thought, 
Its fleeting trials eager to forget. 
Rise with elastic power o'er each regret !. 



Fostered in tears, our young affection grew, 
And I have learned to suffer and be true. 
Deem not my love a frail ephemeral flower, 
Nursed by soft sunshine and the balmy shower ; 
No I 'tis the child of tempests, and defies. 
And meets unchanged, the anger of the skies! 
Too well I feel, with grief's prophetic heart, 
That ne'er to meet in happier days, we part. 
We part ! and e'en this agonizing hour. 
When Love first feels his own o'erwhelming 

power. 
Shall soon to Memory's fixed and tearful eye 
Seem almost happiness — for thou wert nigh ! 
.Yes ! when this heart in solitude shall bleed, 
As days to days all wearily succeed. 
When doomed to weep in loneliness, 'twill be 
Almost like rapture to have wept with thee. 

" But thou, my Hamet, thou canst yet bestow 
All that of joy my blighted lot can know, 
Oh ! be thou still the high-souled and the brave, 
To whom my first and fondest vows I gave. 
In thy proud fame's untarnished beauty still 
The lofty visions of my youth fulfil. 
So shall it sooth me 'midst my heart's despair, 
To hold undimmed one glorious image there !" 

" Zayda, my best-beloved ! my words too well, 
Too soon, thy bright illusions must dispel ; 
Yet must my soul to thee unveiled be shown, 
And all its dreams and all its passions known. 
Thou shalt not be deceived — for pure as heaven 
Is thy young love, in faith and fervour given. 
I said my heart was changed — and would thy 

thought 
Explore the ruin by thy kindred wrought, 
In fancy trace the land whose towers and fanes, 
Crushed by the earthquake, strew its ravaged 

plains. 
And such that heart — where desolation's hand 
Hath blighted all that once was fair or grand ! 
But Vengeance, fixed upon her burning throne. 
Sits 'midst the wreck in silence and alone, 
And I, in stern devotion at her shrine. 
Each softer feeling, but my love, resign. 
— Yes ! they whose spirits all my thoughts controul, 
Who held dread converse with my thrilling soul ; 
They, the betrayed, the sacrificed, the brave, 
Who fill a blood-stained and untimely grave, 
Must be avenged ! and pity and remorse. 
In that stern cause, are banished from my course. 
Zayda, thou treriiblest — and thy gentle breast 
Shrinks from the passions that destroy my rest ; 
Yet shall thy form, in many a storriiy hour. 
Pass brightly o'er my soul with softening power, 
And, oft recalled, thy voice beguile my lot. 
Like some sweet lay, once lieard, and ne'er forgot. 

" But the night wanes — the hours too swiftly fly, 
The bitter moment of farewell draws nigh. 
Yet, loved one ! weep not thus — in joy or pain. 
Oh ! trust thy Hamet, we shall meet again ! 



TALES AND HISTORIC SCENES. 



113 



Yes, we shall meet ! and haply smile at last 
On all the clouds and conflicts of the past. 
On that fair vision teach thy thoughts to dwell, 
Nor deem these mingling tears our last farewell!" 
Is the voice hushed, whose loved, expressive tone, 
Thrilled to her heart, and doth she weep alone? 
Alone she weeps — that hour of parting o'er — 
When shall the pang it leaves be felt no more 1 
The gale breathes light, and fans her bosom fair, 
Showering the dewy rose-leaves o'er her hair; 
But ne'er for her shall dwell reviving power, 
In balmy dew, soft breeze, or fragrant flower, 
To wake once more that calm, serene delight. 
The soul's young bloom, which passion's breath 

could blight ; 
The smiling stillness of life's morning hour, 
Ere yet the day-star burns in all his power. 
Meanwhile through groves of deep lux uriant shade, 
In the rich foliage of the south arrayed, 
Hamet, ere dawns the earliest blush of day, 
Bends to the vale of tombs his pensive way. 
Fair is that scene where palm and cypress wave 
On high o'er many an Aben-Zurrah's grave, 
Lonely and fair — its fresh and glittering leaves. 
With the young myrtle there the laurel weaves. 
To canopy the dead — nor wanting there 
Flowers to the turf, nor fragrance to the air. 
Nor wood-bird's note, nor fall of plaintive stream. 
Wild music, soothing to the mourner's dream. 
There sleep the chiefs of old — their combats o'er, 
The voice of glory thrills their hearts no more ! 
Unheard by them th' awakening clarion blows ; 
The sons of war at length in peace repose. 
No martial note is in the gale that sighs. 
Where proud their trophied sepulchres arise, 
'Mid founts, and shades, and flowers of brightest 

bloom, 
As, in his native vale, some shepherd's tomb. 
There, where the trees their thickest foliage 

spread 
Dark o'er that silent valley of the dead. 
Where two fair pillars rise, embowered and lone. 
Not yet with ivy clad, with moss o'ergrown, 
Young Hamet kneels — while thus his vows are 

poured. 
The fearful vows that consecrate his sword. 
— " Spirit of him, who first within my mind 
Each loftier aim, each nobler thought enshrined. 
And taught my steps the line of light to trace. 
Left by the glorious fathers of my race, 
Hear thou my voice — for thine is with me still, 
In every dream its tones my bosom thrill. 
In the deep calm of midnight they are near, 
'Midst busy throngs they vibrate on my ear. 
Still murmuring 'vengeance!' — nor in vain the 

call, 
Few, few shall triumph in a hero's fall ! 
Cold as thine own to glory and to fame, 
Within my heart there lives one only aim, 



There, till th' oppressor for thy fate atone, 
Concentring every thought, it reigns alone. 
I will not weep — revenge, not grief, must be, 
And blood, not tears, an oflTering meet for thee; 
But the dark holir of stern delight will come, 
And thou shalt triuTnph, warrior ! in thy tomb. 

" Thou, too, my brother ! thou art passed away, 
Without thy fame, in life's fair dawning day. 
Son of the brave ! of thee no trace will shine 
In the proud annals of tliy lofty line, 
Nor shall thy deeds be breathless in the lays 
That hold communion with the after-days. 
Yet by the wreaths thou might'st have nobly won, 
Hadst thou but lived till rose thy noontide sun. 
By glory lost, I swear, by hope betrayed. 
Thy fate shall amply, dearly, be repaid ; 
War with thy foes I deem a holy strife. 
And to avenge thy death, devote my life. 

" Hear ye my vows, oh spirits of the slain ! 
Hear and be with me on the battle plain ! 
At noon, at midnight jiill around me bide, 
Rise on my dreams, aiia tell me how ye died !" 



CANTO II. 



-Oh ! ben provvide il Cielo, 



Ch' uom per delitti raai lieio non sia. 



Alfieri. 



Fair land! of chivalry the old domain. 
Land of the vine and ohve, lovely Spain ! 
Though not for thee with classic shores to vie 
In charms that fix th' enthusiast's pensive eye, 
Yet hast thou scenes of beauty, richly fraught 
With all that wakes the glow of lofty thought ; 
Fountains, and vales, and rocks, whose ancient 

name 
High deeds have raised to mingle with their fame, 
Those scenes are peaceful now: the citron blows, 
Wild spreads the myrtle, where the brave repose. 
No sound of battle swells on Douro's shore, 
And banners wave on Ebro's banks no more. 
But who, unmoved, unawed, shall coldly tread 
Thy fields that sepulchre the mighty dead? 
Blest be that soil ! where England's heroes share 
The grave of chiefs, for ages slumbering there ; 
Whose names are glorious in romantic lays, 
The wild, sweet chronicles of elder days, 
By goatherd lone, and rude serrano sung, 
The cypress dells, and vine-clad rocks among. 
How oft those rocks have echoed to the tale 
Of knights who fell in Roncesvalles' vale; 
Of him, renowned in old heroic lore. 
First of the brave, the gallant Campeador; 
Of those, the famed in song, who proudly died, 
When "Rio Verde" rolled a crimson tide ; 
Or that high name, by Garcilaso's might. 
On the green Vega won in single fight.(8) 



114 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



Round fair Granada, deepening from afar, 
O'er that green Vega rose the din of war. 
At morn or eve no more the sunbeams shone 
O'er a cahn scene in pastoral beauty lone ; 
On helm and corslet tremulous tlfcy glanced. 
On shield and spear in quiverilig lustre danced, 
Far as the sight by clear Xenil could rove. 
Tents rose around, and banners glanced above. 
And steeds in goreous trappings, armour bright 
With gold, reflecting every tint of light, 
And many a floating plume, and blazoned shield, 
Diflfused romantic splendour o'er the field. 

There swell those sounds that bid the life-blood 
start 
Swift to the mantling cheek, and beating heart. 
The clang of echoing steel, the charger's neigh. 
The measured tread of hosts in war's array ; 
And oh ! that music, whose exulting breath 
Speaks but of glory on the road to death ; 
In whose wild voice there dwells inspiring power 
To wake the stormy joy granger's hour, 
To nerve the arm, the spmt to sustain, 
Rouse from despondence, and support in pain ; 
And, 'midst the deepening tumults of the strife, 
Teach every pulse to thrill with more than life. 

High o'er the camp, in man)' a broidered fold. 
Floats to the wind a standard rich witji gold : 
There, imaged on the cross, his form appears. 
Who drank for man the bitter cup of tears 1(9) 
His form, whose word recalled the spirit, fled. 
Now borne by hosts to guide them o'er the dead ! 
O'er yon fair walls to plant the cross on high, 
Spain hath sent forth her flower of chivalry. 
Fired with that ardor, which, in days of yore, 
To Syrian plains the bold crusaders bore ; 
Elate with lofty hope, with martial zeal. 
They come, the gallant children of Castile; 
The proud, the" calmly dignified: — and there 
Ebro's dark sons with haughty mien repair. 
And those who guide the fiery steed of war 
From yon rich province of the western star. (10) 

But thou, conspicuous 'midst the glittering 
scene, 
Stern grandeur stamped upon thy princely mien; 
Known by the foreign garb, the silvery vest, 
The snow-white charger, and the azure crest, (11) 
Young Aben-Zurrah ! 'midst that host of foes, 
Why shines thy helm, thy Moorish lance 1 Dis- 
close ! 
Why rise the tents where dwell thy kindred train, 
Oh son of Afric, midst the sons of Spain 1 I 

Hast thou with these thy nation's fall conspired, 
Apostate chief! by hope of vengeance fired ? 
How art thou changed! Still first in every fight, 
Hamet the Moor ! Castile's devoted knight ! 
There dwells a fiery lustre in thine eye. 
But not the light that shone in days gone by ; 
There is wild ardour in thy look and tone. 
But not the soul's expression once thine own, 



Nor aught like peace within. Yet who shall say 
What secret thoughts thine inmost heart may 

sway? 
No eye but Heaven's may pierce that curtained 

breast. 
Whose joys and griefs alike are unexprest. 

There hath been combat on the tented plain ; 
The. Vega's turf is red with many a stain, 
And rent and trampled, banner, crest, and shield, 
Tell of a fierce and well-contested field ; 
But all is peaceful now — the west is bright 
With the rich splendor of departing light ; 
Mulhacen's peak, half lost amidst the sky, 
Glows like a purple evening-cloud on high, 
And tints, that mock the pencil's art, o'erspread 
Th' eternal snow that crowns Veleta's head,(12) 
While the warm sunset o'er the landscape throws 
A solemn beauty, and a deep repose. 
Closed are the toils and tumults of the day, 
And Hamet wanders irom the camp away. 
In silent musings rapt : — the slaughtered brave 
Lie thickly strewn by Darro's rippling wave. 
Soft fall the dews — but other drops have dyed 
The scented shrubs that fringe the river side, 
Beneath whose shade, as ebbing life retired, 
The wounded sought a shelter — and expired.(13) 
Lonely, and lost in thoughts of other days, 
By the bright windings of the stream he strays, 
Till, more remote from battle's ravaged scene, 
All is repose, and solitude serene. 
There, 'neath an olive's ancient shade reclined. 
Whose rustling foliage waves in evening's wind, 
The harassed warrior, yielding to the power, 
The mild, sweet influence of the tranquil hour. 
Feels, by degrees, a long-forgotten calm 
Shed o'er his troubled soul unwonted balm ; 
His wrongs, his woes, his dark and dubious lot, 
The past, the future, are awhile forgot; 
And Hope, scarce- owned, yet stealing o'er his 

breast. 
Half dares to whisper, " Thou shalt yet be blest!" 
Such his vague musings — but a plaintive sound 
Breaks on the deep and solemn stillness round; 
A low half-strifled moan, that seems to rise 
From life and death's contending agonies. 
He turns: Who shares with him that lonely 

shade 1 
— A youthful warrior on his death-bed laid. 
All rent and stained his broidered Moorish vest, 
The corselet shattered on his bleeding breast ! 
In his cold hand the broken falchion strained, 
With hfe's last force convulsively retained ; 
His plumage soiled with dust, with crimson dyed, 
And the red lance, in fragments, by his side ; 
He Ues forsaken — pillowed on his shield, 
His helmet raised, his lineaments revealed. 
Pale is that quivering lip, and vanished now 
The light once throned on that commanding 
brow; 



TALES AND HISTORIC SCENES. 



115 



And o'er that fading eye, still upward cast, 
The shades of death are gathering dark and fast. 
Yet, as yon rising moon her hght serene 
Sheds the pale olive's waving boughs between, 
Too well can Hamet's conscious heart retrace. 
Though changed thus fearfully, that pallid face, 
Whose every feature to his soul conveys 
Some bitter thought of long-departed days. 

"'Oh! is it thus," he cries, " wc meet at last"? 
Friend of my soul, in years for ever past ! 
Hath fate but led me hither to behold 
The last dread struggle, ere that heart is cold, 
Receive thy latest agonizing breath, 
And, with vain pity, soothe the pangs of death 7 
Yet let me bear thee hence — while life remains. 
E'en though thus feebly circling through thy veins. 
Some healing balm thy sense may still revive, 
Hope is not lost, — and Osmyn yet may live ! 
And blest were he, whose timely care should save 
A heart so noble, e'en from glory's grave." 

Rou.sed by those accents, from his lowly bed, 
The dying warrior faintly lifts' his head; 
O'er Hamet's mien, with vague, uncertain gaze, 
His doubtful glance awhile bewildered strays; 
Till, by degrees, a smile of proud disdain 
Lights up those features late convulsed with pain; 
A quivering radiance flashes from his eye. 
That seems too pure, too full of soul, to die; 
And the mind's grandeur in its parting horir 
Looks from that brow with more than wonted pow- 
er. 

" Away!" he cries, in accents of command. 
And proudly waves his cold and trembling hand, 
" Apostate, hence! my soul .shall soon be free. 
E'en now it soars, disdaining aid from thee: 
'Tis not for thee to clo.se the fading eyes 
Of him who faithful to his country dies ; 
Not for thy hand to raise the drooping head 
Of him who sinks to rest on glory's bed. 
Soon shall these pangs be closed, this conflict o'er, 
And worlds be mine where thou canst never soar: 
Be thine existence with a blighted name, 
Mine the bright death which seals a warrior's 
fame !" 

The glow hath vanished from his cheek — his eye 
Hath lost that beam of parting energy ; 
Frozen and fixed it seems — his brow is chill ; 
One struggle more, — that noble heart is still. 
Departed warrior ! were thy mortal throes. 
Were thy last pangs, ere nature found repose. 
More keen, more bitter, than th' envenomed dart 
Thy dying words have left in Hamet's heart! 
Thy pangs were transient ; his shall sleep no more 
Till life's delirious dream itself is o'er ; 
But thou shalt rest in glory, and thy grave 
Be the pure altar of the patriot brave. 
Oh, what a change that little hour hath wrought 
In the high spirit, and unbending thought ! 



Yet, from himself each keen regret to hide, 
Still Hamet struggles with indignant pride ; 
While his soul rises gathering all its force, 
To meet the fearful conflict with remorse. 

To thee, at length, whose artless love hath been 
His own, unchanged, through many a stormy 

scene ; 
Zayda! to thee his heart for refuge flies; 
Thou still art faithful to afiection's ties. 
Yes! let the world upbraid, let foes contemn. 
Thy gentle breast the tide will firmly stem; 
And soon thy smile, and soft consoling voice, 
Shall bid his troubled soul again rejoice. 

"V^hin Granada's walls are hearts and hands, 
Whose aid in secret Hamet yet commands ; 
Nor hard the task, at some propitious hour. 
To win his silent way to Zayda's bower, 
When night and peace are brooding o'er the world. 
When mute the clarions, and the banners furled. 
.That hour is come — and o'er the arms he bears 
A wandering fakir's garb the chieftain wears: 
Disguise that ill from piercing eye could hide 
The lofty port, and glance of martial pride; 
But night befriends — tlirough paths obscure he 

passed, 
And hailed the lone and lovely scene at last ; 
Young Zayda's chosen haunt, the fair alcove. 
The sparkling fountain and the orange-grove; 
Calm in the moonliglit smiles the still retreat. 
As formed alone for happy hearts to meet. 
For happy hearts'? — not such is hers, who there 
Bends o'er her lute, with dark, unbraided hair; 
That maid of Zcgri race, whose eye, whose mien, 
Tell that despair her bosom's guest hath been. 
So lost in thought she seems, the warrior's feet 
Unheard approach her solitary seat. 
Till his known accents every sense restore — 
" My own loved Zayda! do we meet once morel" 

She starts, she turns — the lightning of surprise, 
Of sudden rapture, flashes from her eves 
But that is fleeting — it is past — and now 
Far other meaning darkens o'er her brow ; 
Changed is her aspect, and her tones severe — 
"Hence, Aben-Zurrah! death surrounds thee 
here!" 

"Zayda! what means that glance, unlike thine 
own 1 
What mean those words, and that unwonted tone 1 
I will not deem thee changed — but in thy face, 
It is not joy, it is not love, I trace ! 
It was not thus in other days we met: 
Hath time, hath absence taught thee to forget ? 
Oh! speak once more — these rising doubts dispel- 
One smile of tenderness, and all is well !" 

"Not thus we met in other days !" — oh no! 
Thou wert not, warrior, then thy country's foe! 
Those days are past — we ne'er shall meet again 
With hearts all warmth, all confidence, as then. 



116 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



But thy dark soul no gentler feelings sway, 
Leader of hostile bands ! away, away ! 
On in thy path of triumph and of power, 
Nor pause to raise from earth a blighted Howcr." 

" And thou too changed ! thine early vow forgot ! 
This, this alone, was wanting to my lot ! 
Exiled and scorned, of every tie bereft. 
Thy love, the desert's lonely fount, was left ; 
And thou, my souls last hope, its lingering beam, 
Thou, the good angel of each brighter dream; 
Wert all the barrenness of life possest, 
To wake one soft affection in my breast ! 
That vision ended — fate hath nouglit in store, 
Of joy or soiTow, e'er to touch me more, 
Go, Zegri maid ! to scenes of sunshine fly, 
From tlie stern pupil of adversity ! 
And now to hope, to confidence adieu ! 
If thou art faithless, who shall e'er be true 7'' 

" Hamet! oh wrong me not ! — I too could speak 
Of sorrows — trace them on my faded cheek, 
In the sunk eye, and in the wasted form, 
That tell the heart hath nursed a canker-worm ! 
But words were idle — read my sufferings there. 
Where grief is stamped on all that one was fair. 

" Oh, wert thou still what once I fondly deemed, 
All that thy mien expressed, thy spirit seemed, 
My love had been devotion — till in death 
Thy name had trembled on my latest breath. 
But not the cliief who leads a lawless band, 
To crush the altars of his native land ; 
Th' apostate son of heroes, whose disgrace 
Hath stained the trophies of a glorious race ; 
Not him I loved — but one whose youthful name 
Was pure and radiant in unsullied fame. 
Hadst thou but died, ere yet dishonour's cloud 
O'er that young name had gathered as a shroud, 
I' then had mourned thee proudly — and my grief 
In its own loftiness had found relief; 
A noble sorrow, cherished to the last, 
When every meaner wo had long been past. 
Yes ! let affection weep — no common tear 
She sheds, when bending o'er a hero's bier. 
Let Nature mourn the dead — a grief like this. 
To pangs that rend my bosom had been bliss !" 

'■ High-minded maid ! the time admits not now 
To plead my cause, to vindicate my vow. 
That vow,. too dread, too solemn to recall. 
Hath urged me onward, haply to my fall. 
Yet this believe — no meaner aim inspires 
My soul, no dream of poor ambition fires. 
No ! every hope of power, of triumph, fled. 
Behold me but th' avenger of the dead ! 
One whose changed heart no tie, no kindred 

knows, 
And in thy love alone hath sought repose. 
Zayda wilt thou this stern accuser be % 
False to his country, he is true to thee ! 
Oh, hear me yet ! — if Hamet e'er was dear. 
By our first vows, our young affection hear ! 



Soon must tliis fair and royal city fall. 
Soon shall the cross be planted on her wall; 
Then who can tell what tides of blood may flow, 
While her lanes echo to the shrieks of wo 1 
Fly, fly with me, and let me bear thee far 
From horrors thronging in the path of war : 
Fly ! and repose in safety — till the blast 
Hath made a desert in its course — and past !" 

"Thou that wilt triumph when the hour is 
come, 
Hastened by thee to seal thy country's doom, 
With thee from scenes of death shall Zayda fly 
To peace and safety 1 — Woman too can die ! 
And die exulting, though unknown to fame, 
In all the stainless beauty of her name ! 
Be mine unmurmuring, undismayed to share 
The fate my kindred and my sire must bear. 
And deem thou not my feeble heart shall fail, 
When the clouds gather, and the blasts assail ; 
Thou hast but known me ere the trying hour 
Called into life my spirit's latent power; 
But I have energies that idly slept. 
While withering o'er my sUent woes I wept. 
And now, when hope and happiness are fled, 
My soul is firm — for what remains to dread 7 
Who shall have power to suffer and to bear. 
If strength and courage dwell not with Despairl" 

" Hamet, farewell ! — retrace thy path again, 
To join thy brethren on the tented plain. 
There wave and wood, in mingling murmxrrs, tell, 
How, in far other cause, thy fathers fell! 
Yes ! on that soil hath Glory's footstep been, 
Names unforgotten consecrate the scene ! 
Dwell not the souls of heroes round thee there, 
Whose voices call thee in the whispering air 7 
Unheard, in vain, they call — their fallen son 
Hath stained the name those mighty spirits won, 
And to the hatred of the brave and free 
Bequeathed his own, through ages yet to be !" 

Still as she spoke, th' enthusiast's kindling eye 
Was lighted up with inborn majesty. 
While her fair form and youthful features caught 
All the proud grandeur of heroic thought, 
Severely beauteous ;( 14) awe-struck and amazed. 
In silent trance awhile the warrior gazed 
As on some lofty vision — for she seemed 
One all inspired — each look with glory beamed, 
While brightly bursting through its cloud of woes, 
Her soul at once in all its light arose. 
Oh! ne'er had Hamet deemed there dwelt en- 
shrined, 
In form so fragile, that unconquered mind. 
And fixed, as by some high enchantment, there 
He stood — till wonder yielding to despair. 

" The dream is vanished — daughter of my foes! 
Reft of each hope the lonely wanderer goes. 
Thy words have pierced his soul — ^yet deem thou 

not 
Thou couldst be once adored, and e'er forgot ! 



TALES AND HISTORIC SCENES. 



117 



O formed of happier love ! heroic mai«l ! 
In grief sublime, in danger undismayed. 
Farewell, and be thou blest ! — all words were vain 
For him who ne'er may view that form again; 
Him, whose sole thought, resembling bliss, must be, 
He hath been loved, once fondly loved, by thee!" 

And is the warrior gone ? — doth Zayda hear 
His parting footstep, and without a tear 1 
Thou weep'st not, lofly maid ! — yet who can tell 
What secret pangs within thy heart may dwelll 
They feel not least, tho»firm, the high in soul, 
Who best each feeling's agony controul. 
Yes ! we may judge the measure of the grief 
Wiiich finds in Misery's eloquence relief; 
But who shall pierce those depths of silent wo. 
Whence breathes no language, whence no tears 

may flow 7 
The pangs that many a noble breast hath proved, 
Scorning itself that thus it could be moved 7 
He, He alone, the inmost heart who knows, 
Views all its weakness, pities all its throes. 
He who hath mercy when mankind contemn, 
Beholding anguish — all unknown to them. 

Fair city ! thou, that 'midst thy stately fanes 
And gilded minarets, towering o'er the plains, 
In eastern grandeur j)roudly dost arise 
Beneath thy canopy of deep-blue skies. 
While streams, that bear thee treasures in their 

wave, (15) 
Thy citron-groves and myrtle-gardens lave ; 
Mourn ! for thy doom is fixed — the days of fear 
Of chains, of wrath, of bitterness, are near ! 
Within, around' thee are the trophied graves 
Of kings and chiefs — their children shall be slaves. 
Fair are thy halls, thy domes majestic swell. 
But there a race that reared them not shall dwoU ; 
For 'midst thy counsels Discord still presides, 
Degenerate fear thy wavering m(0arch guides, 
La.st of a line whose regal spirit flown 
Hath to their offspring but bequeathed a throne. 
Without one generoug thought, or feeling high. 
To teach his soul how kings should Uve and die. 

A voice resounds within Granada's wall. 
The hearts of warriors echo to its call.(lG) 
Whose are those tones witli power electric fraught. 
To reach the source of pure, exalted thought 1 

See on a fortress-tower, with beckoning hand, 
A form, majestic as a prophet, stand ! 
His mien is all impassioned — and his eye 
Filled with a light whose fountain is on high ; 
Wild on the gale his silvery tresses flow. 
And inspiration beams upon his brow, 
While, thronging round him, breathless thousands 

gaze. 
As on some mighty seer of elder days. 

" Saw ye the banners of Castile displayed, 
The helmets glittering, and the hne arrayed 7 
Heard ye the march of steel-clad hosts 1" he cries, 
" Children of conquerors ! in your strength arise ! 



O high-born tribes! oh names unstained by fear ! 
Azarques, Zegris, Almoradis, hear 1(17) 
Be every feud forgotten, and your hands 
Dyed with no blood but that of hostile bands.(I8) 
Wake, princes of the land ! the hour is come, 
And the red sabre must decide your doom. 
Where is that spirit which prevailed of yore. 
When Tarik's bands o'erspread the western 

shore 1(19) 
When the long combat raged on Xeres' plain ,(20) 
And Afric's tecbir swelled through yielding 

Spain 7(21) 
Is the lance broken, is the .shield decayed. 
The warrior's arm un.strung, his heart dismayed, 
Shall no high spirit of ascendant worth 
Arise to lead the sons of Islam forth 7 
To guard the regions where our fathers' blood 
Hath bathed each plain, and mingled with each 

flood. 
Where long their dust hath blended with the soil 
Won by their swords, made fertile by their toil 7 

" O ye sierras of eternal snow ! 
Ye streams that by the tombs of heroes flow, 
Woods, fountains, rocks, of Spain ! ye saw their 

might 
In many a fierce and unforgotten fight ! 
Shall ye behold their lost, degenerate race. 
Dwell 'midst your scenes in fetters and disgrace 7 
With each memorial of the past around. 
Each mighty monument of days renowned? 
May this indignant heart ere then be cold. 
This frame be gathered to its kindred mould .' 
And the last life-drop circling through my veins 
Have tinged a soil untainted yet by chains ! 

" And yet one struggle ere our doom is sealed, ■ 
One mighty effort, one deciding field ! 
If vain each hope, we still have choice to be, 
In life the fettered, or in death the free !" 

Still while he speaks, each gallant heart beats 
high. 
And ardour flashes from each kindling eye; 
Youth, manhood, age, as if inspired, have caught 
The glow of lofty hope and daring thought, 
And all is huslted around — as every sense 
Dwelt on the tones of that wild eloquence. 

But when his voice hath ceased, th' impetuous 
cry 
Of eager thousands burst at once on high ; 
Rampart, and rock, and fortress, ring around. 
And fair Alhambra's inmost halls resovy;)d. 
" Lead us, O chieftain ! lead us to the strife. 
To fame in death, or liberty in life !" 
O zeal of noble hearts ! in vain displayed ! 
High feeling wasted ! generous ho[>e betrayed ! 
Now, while the burning spirit of the brave 
Is roused to energies that yet might save. 
E'en now, enthusiasts ! while ye rush to claim 
Your glorious trial on the field of fame, 



118 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



Your king hath yielded ! Valour's dream is o'er ;(22) 
Power, wealth, and freedom, are your own no 

more ; 
And for your children's portion, but remains 
That bitter heritage — the stranger's chains. 



CANTO III. 



Fermossi al fin il cor che balzo tanto. 

Ippolito Pindemonte. 



Heroes of elder days ! untaught to yield. 
Who bled for Spain on many an ancient field, 
Ye, that around the oaken cross of yore (23) 
Stood firm and fearless on Asturia's shore, 
And with your spirit, ne'er to be subdued, 
Hallowed the wild Cantabrian solitude ; 
Rejoice amidst your dwelling.^ of repose. 
In the last chastening of your Moslem foes ! 
Rejoice I — for Spain, arising in her strength, 
Hath burst the remnant of their yoke at length ; 
And they in turn the cup of wo must drain, ■ 
And bathe their fetters with their tears in vain. 
And thou, the warrior born in happy /iour,(24) 
Valencia's lord, whose name alone was power, 
Theme of a thousand songs in days gone by, 
Conqueror of Kings ! exult, O Cid ! on high. 
For still 'twas thine to guard thy country's weal, 
In life, in death, the watcher for Castile ! 

Thou in that hour when Mauritania's bands 
Rushed from their palmy groves and burning lands, 
E'en in the realm of spirits didst retain 
A patriot's vigilance, remembering Spain !(25) 
Then, at deep midnight, rose the mighty sound, 
By Leon heard, in shuddering awe profound, 
As through her echoing streets in dread array, 
Beings, once niortal, held their viewless way ; 
V<5ices, from worlds we know not — and the tread 
Of marching hosts, the armies of the dead. 
Thou and thy buried chieftains — from the grave 
Then did thy summons rouse a king to save. 
And join thy warriors with unearthly might 
To aid the rescue in Tolosa's fighf. 
Those days are past — the crescent on thy shore, 
O realm of evening ! sets, to rise no more. (26) 
What banner streams afar from Vela's tower 1(27) 
The cross, bright ensign of Iberia's power ! 
What the glad shout of each exulting voice 1 
" Castile and Arragon ! rejoice, rejoice !" 
Yielding ftee entrance to victorious foes, 
The Moorish city sees her gates unclose. 
And Spain's proud host, with pennon, shield, and 

lance, 
Through her long streets in knightly garb advance. 

Oh ! ne'er in lofty dreams hath Fancy's eye 
Dwelt on a scene of statelier pageantry. 
At joust or tourney, theme of poet's lore, 
High masque, or solemn festival of yore. 



The gilded "tupolas, that proudly rise 
O'erarched by cloudless and cerulean skies. 
Tall minarets, shining mosques, barbaric towers, 
Fountains, and palaces, and cypress bowers ; 
And they, the splendid and triumphant throng, 
With helmets glittering as they move along. 
With broidered scarf, and gem-bestudded mail. 
And graceful plumage streaming on the gale ; 
Shields, gold-embossed, and pennons floating far, 
And all the gorgeous blazonry of war, 
^11 brightened by the rich'transparent hues 
That southern suns o'er heaven and earth diffuse ; 
Blend in one scene of glory, formed to throw 
O'er memory's page a never-fading glow. 
And there too, foremost 'midst the conquering brave, 
Your azure plumes, O Aben-Zurrahs! wave. 
There Hamet moves ; the chief whose lofty port 
Seems nor approach to shun, nor praise to court, 
Calm, stern, coUected^-yet within his breast 
Is there no pang, no struggle unconfesf? 
If such there be, it still must dwell unseen. 
Nor cloud a triumph with a sufferer's mien. 

Hear'st thou the solemn, yet exulting sound, 
Of the deep anthem floating far around 1 
The choral voices to the skies that raise 
The full majestic harmony of praise 1 
Lo ! where surrounded by their princely train, 
They come, the sovereigns of rejoicing Spain, 
Borne on their trophied car — lo ! bursting thence 
A blaze of chivalrous magnificence ! 

Onward their slow and stately coyrse they bend 
To where th' Alhambra's ancient towers ascend, 
Reared and adorned by Moorish kings of yore, 
Whose lost descendants there shall dwell no more. 

They reach those towers — irregularly vast 
And rude they seem, in mould barbaric cast :{28) 
They enter — to their wondering sight is given 
A genii palace-^n Arabian heaven !(29) 
A scene by magic raised, so strange, so fair. 
Its form and colours seem alike of air. 
Here by sweet orange-boughs, half shaded o'er, 
The deep clear bath reveals its marble floor, 
Its margin fringed with flowers, whose glowing 

hues 

The calm transparence of its waves suffuse. 
There, round the court, where Moorish arches bend, 
Aerial columns, richly decked, ascend ; 
Unlike the models of each classic race. 
Of Doric grandeur, or Corinthian grace, 
But answering well each vision that portrays 
Arabian splendour to the poet's gaze : 
Wild, wondrous, brilliant, all — a mingling glow 
Of rainbow-tints, above, around, below ; 
Bright-streaming from the many-tinctured veins. 
Of precious marble — and the vivid stains 
Of rich mosaics o'er the fight arcade. 
In gay festoons and fairy knots displayed. 

On through th' enchanted realm, that only seems 
Meet for the radiant creatures of our dreams, 



TALES AND HISTORIC SCENES. 



119 



The royal conquerors pass — while still their sight 
On some new wonder dwells with fresh delight. 
Here the eye roves through slender colonades, 
O'er bowery terraces and myrtle shades, 
Dark olive-woods beyond, and far on high 
The vast sierra, mingling with the sky. 
There, scattering far around their diamond spray, 
Clear streams from founts of alabaster play. 
Through pillared halls, where, exquisitely wrought. 
Rich arabesques, with glittering foliage fraught, 
Surmount each fretted arch, and lend the scene 
A wdld, romantic, oriental mien : 
While many a verse from eastern bards of old. 
Borders the wall in characters of gold. (30) 
Here Moslem luxury, in her own domain, 
Hath held for ages her voluptuous reign 
'Midst gorgeous domes, where soon shall silence 

brood, 
And all be lone — a splendid solitude. 
Now wake their echoes to a thousand songs, 
From mingling voices of exulting throngs; 
Tambour, and flute, and atabal, are there,(31) 
And joyous clarions pealing on the air, 
While every hall resounds, " Granada won ! 
Granada ! for Castile and Arragon !'"(3"2) 

'Tis night — from dome and tower, in dazzling 
maze. 
The festal lamps innumerably blaze ;(33) 
Through long arcades their quivering lustre gleams. 
From every lattice tremulously streams, 
'Midst orange-gardens plays on fount and rill, 
And gilds the waves of Darro and Xenil ; 
Red flame the torches on each minaret's height, 
And shines each street an avenue of light ; 
And midnight feasts are held, and music's voice 
Through the long night still summons to rejoice. 

Yet there, while all would seem to heedless eye 
One blaze of pomp, one burst of revelry. 
Are hearts unsoothed by those delusive hours. 
Galled by the chain, though decked awliile with 

flowers ; 
Stern passions working in th' indignant breast, 
Deep pangs untold, high feehngs unexprest, 
Heroic spirits, unsubmitting yet, 
Vengeance, and keen remorse, and vain regret. 

From yon proud height, whose olive-shaded brow 
Commands the wide luxuriant plains below, 
Who lingering gazes o'er the lovely scene. 
Anguish and shame contending in his mien 1 
He, who, of heroes and of kings the son, 
Hath lived to lose whate'er his fathers won, 
Whose doubts and fears his people's fate have 

sealed ; 
Wavering alike in counsel and in field ; 
Weak, timid ruler of the wise and brave, 
Still a fierce tyrant or a yielding slave. 

Far from these vine-clad hills and azure skies, 
To Afric's wilds the royal exile flies,(34) 



Yet j)auses on his way, to weep in vain, 
O'er all he never must behold again. 
Fair spreads the scene around — for him too fair, 
Each glowing charm but deepens his despair. 
The Vega's meads, the city's glittering spires. 
The old majestic palace of his sires, 
The gay pavilions, and retired alcoves, 
Bosomed in fltron and pomegranate groves ; 
Tower-crested rocks, and streams that wind in 

light, 
All in one moment bursting on his sight 
Speak to his soul of gbry's vanished years. 
And wake the source of unavailing tears. 
— Weepest thou Abdallah 1— Thou dost well to 

weep, 
O feeble heart ! o'er all thou couldst not keep 
Well do a woman's tears befit the eye 
Of him who knew not, as a man, to die. (35) 

The gale sighs mournfully through Zayda's bow- 
er, 
The hand is gone that nursed each infant flower. 
No voice, HO step, is in her father's halls. 
Mute are the echoes of their marble walls; 
No stranger enters at the chieftain's gate. 
But all is hushed, and void, and desolate. 

There, through each tower and solitary shade, 
In vain doth Hamet seek the Zegri riiaid ; 
Her grove is silent, her pavilion lone, 
Her lute forsaken, and her doom unknown ; 
And througli the scene she loved, unheeded flows 
The stream whose music lulled her to repose. 

But oh ! to him, whose self-accusing thought 
Whispers 't was he that desolation wrought ; 
He who his country and his faith betrayed, 
And lent Castile revengeful, powerful aid ; 
A voice of sorrow swells in every gale. 
Each wave, low ripphng, tells a mournful tale ; 
And as the shrubs, untended, unconfined. 
In wild exuberance, rustle to the wind. 
Each leaf hath language to his startled sense, 
And seems to murmur — " Thou hast driven her 

f hence !" 
nd well he feels to trace her flight were vain, 
— Where hath lost love been once recalled again "? 
In her pure breast, so long by anguish torn. 
His name can rouse no feeling now but scorn. 
O bitter hour! when first the shuddering heart 
Wakes to behold the void within — and start ! 
To feel its own abandonment, and brood 
O'er the chill bosom's depth of solitude. 
The stormy passions that in Hamet's breast 
Have swayed so long, so fiercely, are at rest ; 
Th' avenger's task is closed :(36) — he finds too 

late. 
It hath not changed his feelings, but his fate 
His was a lofty spirit, turned aside 
From its bright path by woes, and wrongs, and 

pride ; 



120 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



And onward, in its new tumultuous course, 
Borne with too rapid and intense a force 
To pause one moment in the dread career, 
And ask — if such could be its native sphere. 
Now are those days of wild delirium o'er, 
Their fears and hopes excite his soul no more ; 
The feverish energies of passion close, 
And his heart sinks in desolate repofe. 
Turns sickening from the world, yet shrinks not 

less 
From its own deep and utter loneliness. 

There is a sound of voices on the air, 
A flash of armour in the sunbeam's glare, 
'Midst the wild Alpuxarras ;(37) there, on high. 
Where mountain-snows are mingling with the 

sky, 
A few brave tribes, with spirit yet unbroke. 
Have fled indignant from the Spaniard's yoke. 

O ye dread scenes, where Nature dwells alone, 
Severely glorious on her craggy throne ; 
Ye citadels of rock, gigantic forms. 
Veiled by the mists, and girdled by the storms, 
Ravines, and glens, and deep-resounding caves, 
That hold communion with the torrent-waves ; 
And ye, th' unstained and everlasting snows. 
That dwell above in bright and still, repose; 
To you, in' every clime, in every age, 
Far from the tyrant's or the conqueror's rage, 
Hath Freedom led her sons : — untired to keep 
Her fearless vigils on the barren steep. 
She like the mountain eagle still delights 
To gaze exulting from unconquered heights. 
And build her eyrie in defiance proud. 
To dare the wind and mingle with the cloud. 

Now her deep voice, the soul's awakener, swell.s, 
Wild Alpuxarras, through your inmost dells. 
There, the dark glens and lonely rocks among, 
As at the clarion's call, her children throng. 
She with enduring strength hath nerved each 

frame. 
And made each heart the temple of her flame, 
Her own resisting spirit, which shall glow § 

Unquenchably, surviving all below. 

There high-born maids, that moved upon the 
earth, 
More like bright creatures of aerial birth, 
Nurslings of palaces, have fled to share 
The fate of brothers and of sires ; to bear. 
All undismayed, privation and distress. 
And smile, the roses of the wilderness. 
And mothers with their infants, there to dwell 
In the deep forest or the cavern cell, 
And rear their offspring 'midst the rocks, to be, 
If now no more the mighty, still the free. 

And 'midst that band of veterans, o'er whose 
head 
Sorrows and years their mingled snow have shed : 
They saw thy glory, they have wept thy fall, 
O royal city ! and the wreck of all 



They loved and hallowed most : — doth aught re- 
main 
For these to prove of happiness or pain"? 
Life's cup is drained — earth fades before their eye 
Their task is closing — they have but to die. 
Ask ye, why fled they hither 1 — that their doom 
Might be to sink unfettered to the tomb. 
And youth, in all its pride of strength is there; 
And buoyancy of spirit, formed to dare 
And suffer all things, — fallen on evil days, 
Yet darting o'er the world an ardent gaze. 
As on th' arena, where its powers may find 
Full scope to strive forglory with mankind. 

Such are the tenants of the mountain-hold. 
The high in heart, unconquered, uncontrolled; 
By day the huntsman of the wild— by night, 
Unwearied guardians of the watch-fire's light. 
They from their bleak, majestic home have caught 
A sterner tone of unsubmitting thought. 
While all around them bids the soul arise, 
To blend with Nature's dread sublimities. 
— But these are lofty dreams, and must not be 
Where tyranny is near: — the bended knee. 
The eye, whose glance no inborn grandeur fires. 
And the tamed heart, are tributes she requires; 
Nor must the dwellers of the rock look down 
On regal conquerors and defy their frown. 
What warrior-band is toiling to explore 
The mountain-pass, with pine-wood shadowed 

o'er? 
Startling with martial sound each rude recess, 
Where the deep echo slept in loneliness. 
These are the sons of Spain ! — Your foes are near : 
Oh, exiles of the wild sierra! hear! 
Hear ! wake ! arise ! and from your inmost caves, 
Pour like the torrent in its might of waves ! 

Who leads th' invaders onl — his features bear 
The deep-worn traces of a calm despair ; 
Yet his dark brow is haughty — and his eye 
Speaks of a soul that asks not sympathy. 
'Tishe! 'tis he again! th' apostate chief ; 
He comes in all the sternness of his grief 
He comes, but changed in heart, no more to wield 
Falchion for proud Castile in battle-field. 
Against his country's children — though he leads 
Castilian bands again to hostile deeds : 
His hope is but from ceaseless pangs to fly, 
To rush upon the Moslem spears and die. 
So shall remorse and love thy heart release, 
Which dares not dream of joy, but sighs for peace. 
The mountain-echoes are awake — a sound 
Of strife is ringing through the rocks around. 
Within the steep defile that winds between 
cuffs piled on cliffs, a dark, terrific scene. 
There Moorish exile and Castilian knight 
Are wildly mingling in the serried fight. 
Red flows the foaming streamlet of the glen, 
Whose bright transparence ne'er was stained till 
then ; 



TALES AND HISTORIC SCENES. 



121 



While swell the war-note and the clash of spears, 
To the bleak dwellings of the mountaineers, 
Where thy sad daughters, lost Granada! wait, 
In dread suspense, the tidings of their fate. 
But he, — whose spirit, panting for its rest. 
Would fain each sword concentrate in his breast — 
Who, where a spear is pointed, or a lance 
Aimed at another's breast, would still advance — 
Courts death in vain ; each weapon glances by, 
As if for him 't were bliss too great to die. 
Yes, Aben-Zurrah! there are deeper woes 
Reserved for thee ere Nature's last repose; 
Thou knowest not yet what vengeance fate can 

wreak. 
Nor all the heart can suffer ere it break. 
Doubtful and long the strife, and bravely fell 
The sons of battle in that narrow dell; 
Youth in its light of beauty there hath past. 
And age, the weary, found repose at last ; 
Till few and faint the Moslem tribes recoil. 
Borne down by numbers and o'erpowered by toil. 
Dispersed, disheartened, through the pass they fly, 
Pierce the deep wood, or mount the cliff on high: 
While Hamet's band in wonder gaze, nor dare 
Track o'er their dizzy path the footsteps of de- 
spair. 
Yet he to whom each danger hath become 
A dark delight, and every wild a home. 
Still urges onward — undismayed to tread 
Where life's fond lovers would recoil with dread ; 
But fear is for the happy — they may shrink 
From the steep precipice, or torrent's brink; 
They to whom earth is paradise — their doom 
Lends no stern courage to approach the tomb: 
Not such his lot, who, schooled by fate severe, 
Were but too blest if aught remained to fear.(38) 
Up the rude crags, whose giant-masses throw 
Eternal shadows o'er the glen below; 
And by the fall whose many-tinctured spray 
Half in a mist of radiance veils its way, 
He holds his venturous track : — supported now 
By some o'erhanging pine or ilex bough ; 
Now by some jutting stone that seems to dwell 
Half in mid-air, as balanced by a spell : 
Now hath his footstep gained the summit's head, 
A level span, with emerald verdure spread, 
A fairy circle — there the heath-flowers rise. 
And the rock- rose unnoticed blooms and dies; 
And brightly plays the stream, ere yet its tide 
In foam and thunder cleave the mountain side; 
But all is wild beyond — and Hamet's eye 
Roves o'er a world of rude sublimity. 
That dell beneath, where e'en at noon of day 
Earth's chartered guest, the sunbeam, scarce can 

stray 
Around, untrodden woods; and far above. 
Where mortal footstep ne'er may hope to rove, 
Bare granite cliffs, whose fixed, inherent dies 
Rival the tints that float o'er summer skies ;(39) 



And the pure glittering snow-realm, yet more high 
That seems a part of Heaven's eternity. 

There is no track of man where Hamet stands, 
Pathless the scene as Lybia's desert sands; 
Yet on the calm, still air, a sound is heard 
Of distant voices, and the gathering-word 
Of Islam's tribes, now faint and fainter grown, 
Now but the lingering echo of a tone. 

That sound, whose cadence dies upon his ear, 
He follows, reckless if his bands are near. 
On by the rushing stream his way he bends, 
And through the mountain's forest zone ascends; 
Piercing the still and solitary shades 
Of ancient pines, and dark, luxuriant glades, 
Eternal twilight's reign :-^those mazes past. 
The glowing sunbeams meet his eyes at last. 
And the lone wanderer now hath reached the 

source 
Whence th^wave gushes, foaming on its course. 
But there he pauses — for the lonely scene 
Towers in such dread magnificence of mien, 
And, mingled oft with some wild eagle's cry, 
From rock-built eyrie rushing to the sky, 
So deep the solemn and majestic sound 
Of forests, and of waters murmuring round, 
That, rapt in wondering awe, his heart forgets 
Its fleeting struggles, and its vain regrets. 
— Wliat earthly feeling unabashed can dwell 
In Nature's miglity presence? — 'midst the swell 
Of everlasting hills, the roar of floods. 
And frown of rocks, and pomp of waving woods? 
These their own grandeur on the soul impress, 
And bid each passion feel its nothingness. 

'Midst the vast marble cliffs, a lofty cave 
Rears its broad arch beside the rushing wave; 
Shadowed by giant oaks, and rude, and lone, 
It seems the temple of some power unknown. 
Where earthly being may riot dare intrude 
To pierce the secrets of the solitude. 
Yet thence at intervals a voice of wail 
Is rising, wild and soleum, on the gale. 
Did thy heart thrill, O Hamet, at the tone? 
Came it Mot o'er thee as a spirit's moan? 
As some loved sound that long from earth had fledj 
The unforgotten accents of the dead 1 
E'en thus it rose — and springing from his trance 
His eager footsteps to the sound advance. 
He mounts the cliffs, he gains the cavern floor; 
Its dark green moss with blood is sprinkled o'er: 
He rushes on — and lo! where Zayda rends 
Her locks, as o'er her slaughtered sire she bends 
Lost in despair; — yet as a step draws nigh, 
Disturbing sorrow's lonely sanctity. 
She lifts her head, and all subdued by grief, 
Views with a wild, sad smile, the once-loved chief ; 
While rove her thoughts, unconscious of the past, 
And every wo forgetting — but the last. 

"Com'stthou to weep with me1 — for I am left 
Alone on earth, of every tie bereft. 



122 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



Low lies the warrior on his blood-stained bier; 
His child may call, but he no more shall hear ! 
He sleeps — but never shall those eyes unclose ; 
'Twas not my voice that lulled him to repose, 
Nor can it break his slumbers.-^Dost thou mourn ? 
And is thy heart, like mine, with anguish torn? 
Weep, and my soul a joy in grief shall know, 
That o'er his grave my tears with Hamet's flow!" 

But scarce her voice had breathed that well- 
known name, 
When swiftly rushing o'er her spirit, came 
Each dark remembrance ; by affliction's power 
Awhile effaced in that o'erwhelming hour, 
To wake with tenfold strength , — 'twas then her 

eye 
Resumed its light, her mien its majesty, 
And o'er her wasted cheek a burning glow 
Spreads, while her lips' indignant accents flow. 

" Away ! I dream — oh, how hath sma-ows might 
Bowed down my soul and quenched itsnative light, 
That I should thus forget ! and bid thy tear 
With mine be mingled o'er a father's bier ! 
Did he not perish, haply by thy hand,- 
In the last combat with thy ruthless band ] 
The morn beheld that conflict of despair : — 
'Twas then he fell — he fell ! — and thou wert there ! 
Thou ! who thy country's children hast pursued 
To their last refuge midst these mountains rude. 
Was it for this I loved thee'! — Thou hast taught 
My soul all grief, all bitterness of thought : 
'T will soon be past — I bow to Heaven's decree, 
Which bade each pang be ministered by thee." 

"I had not deemed that aught remained below 
For me to prove of yet untasted wo ; 
But thus to meet thee, Zayda! can impart 
One more, one keener agony of heart. 
Oh, hear me yet ! — I would have died to save 
My foe, but still thy father, from the grave; 
But in the fierce confusion of the strife. 
In my own stern despair and scorn of life, 
Borne wildly on, I saw not, knew not aught, 
Save that to perish there in vain I sought. 
And let me share thy sorrows — hadst thou known 
All I have felt in silence and alone, 
E'en thou might'st then relent, and deem at last 
A grief like mine might expiate all the past. 

" But oh! for thee, the loved and precious flower, 
So fondly reared in luxury's guarded bower, 
From every danger, every storm secured, 
How hast thou suffered ! what hast thou endured ! 
Daughter of palaces ! and can it be 
That this bleak desert is a home for thee ! 
These rocks thy dwelling! thou, who shouldst 

have known 
Of life the sunbeam and the smile alone ! 
Oh, yet forgive! — be all my guilt forgot, 
Nor bid me leave thee to so rude a lot!" 

" That lot is fixed ; 't were fruitless to repine, 
Still must a gulf divide my fate from thine. 



I may forgive — ^but not at will the heart 
Can bid its dark remembrances depart. 
No, Hamet, no ! — too deeply these are traced, 
Yet the hour comes when all shall be effaced ! 
Not long on earth, not long, shall Zayda keep 
Her lonely vigils o'er the grave to weep : 
E'en now prophetic of my early doom. 
Speaks to my soul a presage of the tomb ; 
And ne'er in vain did hopeless mourner feel 
That deep foreboding o'er the bosom steal ! 
Soon shall I slumber calmly by the side 
Of him for whom I lived and would have died ; . 
Till then, one thought shall sooth my orphan lot. 
In pain and peril — I forsook him not. 

" And now, farewell ! — behold the summer-day 
Is passing, like the dreams of life, away. 
Soon will thetribe of hiin who sleeps draw nigh, 
With the last rites his bier to sanctify. 
Oh, yet in time, away! — 'twere not my prayer 
Could move their hearts a foe like thee to spare ! 
This hour they come — and dost thou scorn to flyl 
Save me that one last pang — to see thee die !" 

E'en while she speaks is heard their echoing 
tread ; 
Onward they move, the kindred of the dead. 
They reach the cave — they enter — slow their pace, 
And calm, deep sadness marks each mourner's face, " 
And all is hushed — till he who seems to wait 
In silent, stern devotedness, his fate, 
Hath met their glance — then grief to fury turns ; 
Each mien is changed, each e3'e indignant burns. 
And voices rise, and swords have left their sheath; 
Blood must atone for blood, and death for death ! 
They close around him : — lofty still his mien. 
His cheek unaltered, and his brow serene. 
Unheard, or heard in vain, is Zayda's cry; 
Fruitless her prayer, unmarked her agony. 
But as his foremost foes their weapons bend 
Against the life he seeks not to defend, 
Wildly she darts between — each feeling past. 
Save strong affection, which prevails at last. 
Oh ! not in vain its daring — for the blow 
Aimed at his heart hath bade her life-blood flow 
And she hath sunk a martyr on the breast, 
Where, in that hour, her head may calml)^ rest. 
For he is saved : — behold the Zegri band. 
Pale with dismay and grief, around her stand ; 
While, every thought of hate and vengeance o'er, 
They weep for her who soon shall weep no more. 
She, she alone is calm : a fading smile. 
Like sunset, passes o'er her cheek the while; 
And in her eye, ere yet it closes, dwell 
Those last faint rays, the parting soul's farewell. 

" Now is the conflict past, and I have proved 
How well, how deeply thou hast been beloved ! 
Yes! in an hour like this 'twere vain to hide 
The heart so long and so severely tried : 
Still to thy name that heart hath fondly thrilled, 
But sterner duties called — and were fulfilled : 



TALES AND HISTORIC SCENES. 



123 



Am I blest ! — To every holier tie 
My life was faithful, — and for thee I die ! 
Nor shall the love so purified be vain ; 
Severed on earth, we yet shall meet again. 
Farewell !— And ye, at Zayda's dying prayer, 
Spare him, my kindred tribe ! forgive and spare ! 
Oh ! be his guilt forgotten in his woes, 
While I, beside my sire, in peace repose." 

Now fades her cheek, her voice hath sunk, and 
death 
Sits in her eye, and struggles in her breath. 
One pang — 'tis past — her task on earth is done, 
And the pure spirit to its rest hath flown. 
But he for whom she died — Oh ! who may paint 
The grief, to which all other woes were faint 1 
There is no power in language to impart 
The deeper pangs, the ordeals of the heart, 
By the dread Searcher of the soul surveyed ; 
Tliese have no words — nor are by words por 
trayed. 

A dirge is rising on the mountain-air. 
Whose fitful swells its plaintive murmurs bear 
Far o'er the Alpuxarras ; — wild its tone, 
And rocks and caverns echo " Thou art gone !" 

" Daughter of heroes ! thou art gone 
To share his tomb who gave thee birth ; 

Peace to the lovely spirit flown I 
It was not formed for ea.rth. 

Thou wert a sunbeam in thy race, 

Which brightly past, and left no trace. 

" But calmly sleep ! — for thou art free, 
And hands unchained thy tomb shall raise. 

Sleep ! they are closed at length for thee, 
Life's few and evil days ! 

Nor shalt thou watch, with tearful eye, 

The lingering death of liberty. 

" Flower of the desert ! thou thy bloom 

Didst early to the storm resign : 
We bear it still — and dark their doom 

Who can not weep for thine ! 
For us, whose every hope is fled, 
The time is past to mourn the dead. 

" The days have been, when o'er thy bier 
Far other strains than these had flowed ; 

Now, as a home from grief and ftar, 
We hail thy dark abode ! 

We who but linger to bequeath 

Our sons the choice of chains or death. 

" Thou art with those, the free, the brave, 

The mighty of departed years ; 
And for the slumberers of the grave 

Our fate hath left no tears. 
Though loved and lost, to weep were vain 
For thee, who ne'er shalt weep again. 



" Have we not seen, despoiled by foes, 

The land our fathers won of yore"? 
And is there yet a pang for those 

Who gaze on this no more? 
Oh, that Uke them 'twere ours to rest ! 
Daughter of heroes ! thou art blest 1" 

A few short years, and in the lonely cave 
Where sleeps the Zegri maid, is Hamet's grave. 
Severed in life, united in the tomb — 
Such, of the hearts that loved so well, the doom ! 
Their dirge, of woods and waves th' eternal moan; 
Their sepulchre, the pine-clad rocks alone. 
And oft beside the midnight watch-fire's blaze, 
Amidst those rocks, in long departed days 
(When Freedom fled, to hold, sequestered there. 
The stern and lofty councils of despair), 
Some exiled Moor, a warrior of the wild, 
Who the lone hours with mournful strains be- 
guiled, 
Hath taught his mountain-home the tale of those 
Who thus have suffered, and who thus repose. 



NOTES. 

Notel, page 109, col. 2. 

Not the light zambra.- 
Zambra, a Moorish dance. 

Note 2, page 109, col. 2. 
Within the hall of Lions. 
The hall of Lions was the principal one of the 
Alhambra, and was so called from twelve sculptur- 
ed lions, which supported an alabaster basin in 
the centre. 

Note 3, page 109, col. 2. 

His Aben-Zurrahs there young Ilamet leads. 

Aben-Zurrahs ; the name thus written is taken 

from the translation of an Arabic MS. given in 

the 3d volume of Bourgoanne's Travels through 

Spain. 

Note 4, page 110, col. 2. 
The Vega's green expanse. 
The Vega, the plain surrounding Granada, the 
scene of frequent actions between the Moors and 
Christians. 

Note 5, page 110, col. 2. 
Seen 'midst the redness of the desert storm. 
An extreme redness in the sky is the presage of 
the Simoom. — See Bruce's Travels. 

Note 6, page 111, col. 1. 

.Stillness like that, when fierce the Kamsin's blast 
Hath o'er the dwellings of the desert passed. 
Of the Kamsin, a hot south wind, common in 
Egypt we have the following account in Volney's 



1-34 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



Travels: " These winds are known in Egypt by 
the general name of the winds of iirty days, be- 
cause they prevail more frequently in the iitly days 
preceding and following the equinox. They are 
mentioned hy travellers under the name of the 
poisonous winds, or hot winds of the desert : their 
lieat is so excessive, that it is difficult to form any 
i lea of its violence without having experienced it. 
"SVhen they begin to blow, the sky, at other times 
so clear in this climate, becomes dark and heavy ; 
the sun loses his splendour, and appears of a violet 
colour ; the air is not cloudy, but gray and thick, 
and is tilled with a subtile dust, which penetrates 
every where : respiration becomes short and diffi- 
cult, the skin parched and dry, the lungs are con- 
tracted and painful, and the body consumed with 
internal heat. In vain is coolness sought for; 
marble, iron, water, though the sun no longer ap- 
pears, are hot: the streets are deserted, and a dead 
silence appears everv \\-hcre. The natives ot towns 
and villages shut themselves up in their houses, 
and those of the deserts in tents, or holes dug in 
the earth, where they wait the termination of this 
heat, which generally lasts three days. Wo to the 
traveller whom it surprises remote from saelter : he 
must suiier all its dreadful eHt>cts, wliich are some- 
times mortal." 

Note 7, page 113, col. 1. 
■While tearless eyes enjoy the honey-dew's of sleep. 
"Enjoy the honey-heavy-dew of slumber." — 
Shakspeare. 

Note 8, page 113, col. 2. 

On the green Vega won in single fight. 
Garcilaso de la Vega derived his surname from 
a single combat (in which he was the victor) with 
a Moor, on the Vega of Granada. 

Note 9, page 114, col. 1. 
Who drank for man the hitter cup of tears. 
" El Rey D. Fernando bolvio a la Vega, y puso 
su Real a la vista de Huccar, aveynte y seys dias 
del mes de Ahril, adonde fue fbrtilicado de todo lo 
necessario; poniendo el Christiano toda su gente 
en esqnadron, con todas sus vanderas tendidas, y 
su Real Estandarte, el qual llevava por divisa un 
Christo cruciUcado." — Historia de la Guerras Ci- 
vilcs de Granada. 

Note 10, page 114, col. 1. 

From yon rich province of the western star. 

Andalusia signifies, in Arabic, fA^ region of the 

erening or of the west ; in a word, the Hesperia 

of the Greeks. — See Casiri. Bibliot. Arabico- 

Hispana, and Gibbon's Decline aiid Fall, ^-c. 

Note 11, page 114, col. 1. 

The snow-white charger, and the azure crest 
" Los Abencerragcssalieronconsu acostumbrada 



librea azul y blanca, todos Ilenos de ricos texidoe 
de plata, las plumas do la misma color; en bus 
adargas, su acostumbrada divisa, salvages que 
desquixalavaii leones, y otros un mundo que lo 
deshazia un selvage con un baston." — Guerras 
Cii'ilcs de Granada. 

Note 12, page 114, col. 3. 
Th' eternal snow that crowns Veleta's head. 
The loftiest heights of tlie Sierra Nevada are 
those called Mulhacen and Picacho de Veleta. 

Note 13, page 114, col. 2. 
The wounded sought a shelter — and expired. 
It is known to be a frequent circumstance in bat- 
tle, that the dying and the wounded drag them- 
selves, as it were mechanically, to the shelter which 
may be afforded by any bush or tliicket on the field. 

Note 14, page 116, col. 2. 
Severely beauteous. 
" Severe in youthful beauty." — Milton. 

Note 15, page 117, col. 1. 
Wliile streams, that bear thee treasures in their wave.' 
Granada stands upon two hills, separated by the 
Darro. The Genii runs under the walls. The 
Darro is said to carry with its stream small parti- 
cles of gold, and the Gejiil, of silver. When 
Charles V. came to Granada with the Empress 
Isabella, the city presented him with a crown made 
of gold, which had" been collected from the Darro. — 
See Bourgoanne's and other Travels. 

Note 16, page 117, col. 1. . 
The hearts of warriors echo to its call. 
"At this period, while the inhabitants of Gra- 
nada were sunk in indolence, one of those men, 
whose natural and impassioned eloquence has some- 
times aroused a people to deeds of heroism, raised 
his voice, in the midst of the city, and awakened 
the inhabitants from their lethargy. Twenty thou- 
sand enthusiasts, ranged under his banners, were 
prepared to sally forth,. with the fury of despera- 
tion, to . attack the besiegers, when Abo Abdeli, 
more afraid of his subjects than of the enemy, re- 
solved immediately to capitulate, and made terms 
with the Christians, by which it. was agreed that 
the ^Nloors should be allowed the free exercise of 
theii: religion and laws ; should be permitted, if 
they thought prjper, to depart unmolested with 
their efiects to Africa; and that he himself, if he 
remained in Spain, should retain an extensive es- 
tate, with houses and slaves, or be granted an equi- 
valent in money if he .preferred retiring to Barba- 
ry." — See Jacob's Travels in Spain. 

Note 17, page 117, col. 2. 
Azarques, Zegris, Ahnoradis, hear! 
Azarques, Zegris, Almoradis, different tribes of 
the INIoors of Granada, all of high distinction. 



TALES AND HISTORIC SCENES. 



125 



Note 18, page 117, col. 2. 
Dyed with no blood b-ii (hat of boaile bands. 
The conquest of Granada was greatly facilitated 
by the civil disscntions wliich, at this period, pre- 
vailed in the city. Several of the Moorish tribes. 
influence<l by private feuds, were fully prepared 
for submission to the Spaniards; others had em- 
braced the cause of Muley el Za^al. the uncle and 
competitor for the throne of Abdallah (or Abo 
Abdeli), and all was jealou.sy and animosity. 

Note 19, page 117, col. 2. 
When Tank's bands o'erspread the western shore. 
Tarik, the first leader of the Moors and Arabs 
into Spain — "The Saracens landed at the pillar 
or point of Europe: the corrupt and familiar ap- 
pellation of Gibraltar (Gebel al Tarik) describes 
the mountain of Tarik, and the intrenchnients of 
his cam[iwere the first outhne of those fortifica- 
tions, which, in the hands of our countrymen, 
have resisted the art and power of the House of 
Bourbon. The adjacent governors informed the 
court of Toledo of the descent and progress of the 
Arabs; and the defeat of his lieutenant, Edeco, 
who had been commanded to seize and bind the 
presumptuous rtransers, first admonislied Roderic 
of the magnitude of the danger. At the royal 
summons, the dukes and counts, the bishops and 
noWes of the Gothic monarchy, a-ssembled at the 
head of their followers; and the title of king of the 
Romans, which is employed by an Arabic histo- 
rian, may be excused by the close afiinity of lan- 
guage, religion, and manners l)etween the nations 
of Spadn." — Gibbon's Decline and Fall, (^. vol. 
ix. pp. 472, 473. 

Note 20, page 117, col. 2. 
When the long combai raeed on Xeres" plaia 
" In the neighbourhood of Cadiz, the town of 
Xeres has been illustrated by the encounter which 
determined the fate of the kingdom: the stream of 
the Guadalete, which falls into the Ifey, divided 
the two camps, and marked the advancing and 
retreating skirmishes of three successive days. 
On the fourth day, the two armies joined a more 
serious and decisive issue." '"Notwithstandincr 
the valour of the Saracens, they fainted under the 
weight of multitudes, and the plain of Xeres was 
overspread with sixteen thousand of their dead 
bodies. 'My brethren,' said Tarik to his surviv- 
ing companions, ' the enemy is before you, the sea 
is behind; whither would ye flyl Follow your ge- 
neral ; I am resolved either to lose ray life, or to 
trample on the prostrate king of the Romans.' 
Besides the resource of despair, he confided in the 
secret correspondence and nocturnal interviews of 
Count Julian with the sons and the brother of 
Wiliza. The two princes, and the archbbhop 
IS 



of Toledo, occupierl the most important post: their 
well-timed defection broke the ranks of the Chris- 
tians ; each warrior was prompted by fear or sus- 
picion to consult his personsd safety; and the 
remains of the Gothic army were scattered or de- 
stroyed in the flight and pursuit of the three fol- 
lowing days." — Gibbon's Decline and Fall, <f^. 
vol. ix. pp. 473, 474. 

Note 21, ps^e 117, col. 2. 
And Afric's tecbir swelled throuzh yielding r^pain. 
The tecbir, the shout of onset used by the Sara- 
cens in battle. 

Note 22, page 118, coL 1. 
Tour ting hath yielded ! Valour's dream is o'er. 
The terrors occasioned by this sudden excite- 
ment of popular feeling seem even to have accele- 
rated Abo Abdeli's capitulation. " Aterrado Abo 
AbdeU con el alboroto, y temiendo no ser ya el 
Dueno de un pueblo amotinado, se apresuro a 
concluir una capitulacion, la menosdura que podia 
obtener en tan urgentes circunstancias, y ofrecio 
entregar a. Granada el dia seis de Enero." — Paseos 
en Granada, vol. i. p. 298. 

Note 23, page 118, coL 1. 

Ye, that around the oaken cross of ytwe. 

The oaken cross, carried by Palagius in battle. 

Note 24, page 118, col. 1. 
And Uiou, the warrior bom in happy hour. 

See Southey's Chronicle of the Cid, in which 
that warrior is frequently styled, "he who was born 
in happy hour." 

Note 25, page 113, col. 1. 

ETen in the realm of spiriis didst retain 
A pauioi's vigilance, remembering Spain ! 

'• Moreover, when the Miramamolin brought 
over from Africa, against King Don AJphonso, 
the eighth of that name, the mightiest power of 
the misbelievers that ha/J ever been brought atjainst 
Spain, since the destruction of the kings of the 
Goths, the Cid Campeador remembered his cotm- 
tn.- in that great danger ; for the night before the 
battle was fought at the Navas de Tolosa, in the 
dead of the night, a mighty sound was heard in 
the whole city of Leon, as if it were the tramp of 
a great army passing through : and it passed on 
to the royal monastery of St. Isidro, and there was 
a great knocking at the gate thereof, and they 
called to a priest who was keeping vigils in the 
church, and told him, that the captains of the array 
whom he heard were the Cid Ruydiez, and Count 
Ferran Gonzalez, and that they came there to call 
up King Don Ferrando the Great, who lay buried 
in that church, that he might go with them to de- 
Uver Spain. And on the morrow that great battle 



126 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



of the Navas de Tolosa was fought, wherein sixty 
thousand of the misbelievers were slain, which 
was one of the greatest and noblest battles ever won 
over the Moors." — Southey's Chronicle of the Cid. 

Note 26, page 118, col. 1. 
O realm of evening ! 
The name of Andalusia, the region of evening 
or of the west, was applied by the Arabs, not only 
to the province so called, but to the whole penin- 
sula. 

Note 27, page 118, col. 1. 
What banner streams afar from Vela's tower ?- 
"En este dia, para siempre memorable, los 
estandartes de la Cruz, de St. lago, y el de los 
Reyes de Castilla se tremolaron sobre la torre mas 
alta, llamada de la Vela; y un exercito proster- 
nado, inundandose en lagrimas de gozo y recono- 
cimiento, asistio al mas glorioso de los espectacu- 
los." — Paseos en Granada, vol. i. p. 599. 

Note 28, page 118, col. 2. 

They reach those towers — irregularly vast, 
And rude they seem, in mould barbaric cast. 

Swinburne, after describing the noble palace 
built by Charles V. in the precincts of the Alham- 
bra, thus proceeds: " Adjoining (to the north) 
stands a huge heap of as ugly buildings as can well 
be seen, all huddled together, seemingly without 
the least intention of forming one habitation out 
of them. The walls are entirely unornamented, 
all gravel and pebbles, daubed over with plaster by 
a very coarse hand ; yet this is the palace of the 
Moorish kings of Granada, indisputably the most 
curious place within that exists in Spain, perhaps 
in Europe. In many countries you may see excel 
lent modern as well as ancient architecture, both 
entire and in ruins; but nothing to be met with 
any where else can convey an idea of this edifice 
except you take it from the decorations of an 
opera, or the tales of the genii." — Swinburne's 
Travels through Spain. 

Note29, patre 118, col. 2. 
A genii palace — an Arabian heaven. 
"Passing round the corner of the emperor's 
palace, you are admitted at a plain unornameiited 
door, in a corner. On my first visit, I confess, 1 
was struck with amazement as I stept over the 
threshold, to find myself on a sudden transported 
into a species of fairy land. The first place you come 
to is the court called the Communa, or del Mesucar, 
that is, the common baths: an oblong square, with 
a deep basin of clear water in the middle; two 
flights of marble steps leading down to the bot- 
tom; on each side a parterre of flowers, and a row 
of orange-trees. Round the court runs a peristyle 
paved with marble; the arches boar upon very 



slight pillars, in proportions and style different 
from all the regular orders of architecture. The 
ceilings and walls are incrustated with fretwork in 
stucco, so minute and intricate, that the most 
patient draughtsman would find it difficult to fol- 
low it, unless he made himself master of the gene- 
ral plan." — Swinburne's Travels in Spain. 

Note 30, page 119, col. 1. 
Borders the walls in characters of gold. 
The walls and cornices of the Alhambra are 
covered with inscriptions in Arabic characters. 
" In examining this abode of magnificence," says 
Bourgoanne, " the observer is every moment 
astonished at the new and interesting mixture of 
architecture and poetry. The palace of the Al- 
hambra may be called a collection of fiigitive 
pieces; and whatever duration these may have, 
time, with which every thing passes away, has 
too much contribution to confirm to them that 
title." — See Bourgoanne's Travels in Spain. 

Note 31, page 119, col. 1. 
Tambour, and flute, and atabal, are there. 
Atabal, a kind of Moorish drum. 

Note 32, page 119, col. 1. 

Granada ! for Castile and Arragon ! 

" Y ansi entraron en la ciudad, y subieron al 
Alhambra, y encima de la torre de Comares tan 
famosa se levanto la senal de la Santa Cruz, y 
luego el real e.standarte de los dos Christianos 
reyes. Y al punto los reyes de armas, a grandes 
bozes dizieron, 'Granada! Granada! por su ma- 
gestad, y por la reyna su muger.' La serenissima 
reyna D. Isabel que vio la senal de la Santa Cruz 
sobre la hermosa torre de Comares, y el su estan- 
darte real con ella, se hinco de Rodillas, y dio in- 
finitas gracias a Dios por la victoria que le avia 
dado contra aquella gran ciudad. La musica real 
de la capilla del rey luego a canto de organo canto 
Te Deum kudamus. Fue tan grande el plazer 
que todos lloravan. Luego del Alhambra sonaron 
mil instrumentos de musica de belicas trornpetas. 
Los Moros amigos del rey, que querian ser Chris- 
tianos, cuya cabeza era el valeroso Mufa, tomaron 
mil dulzaynas y anafiles, sonando grande ruydo de 
atambores por toda la ciudad." — Historia de las 
Guerras Civiles de Granada. 

Note 33, page 119, col. 1. 
The festal lamps innumerably blaze. 
" Los cavalleros Moros que avemos dicho, 
aquella noche jugaron galanamento alcancias y 
canas. Andava Granada aquella noche con tanta 
alegria, y con tantas luminarias, que parecia que 
se ardia la tierra." — Historia de las Guerras Ci- 
viles de Granada. 



TALES AND HISTORIC SCENES. 



127 



Swinburne, in his Travels through Spain, in 
the years 1775 and 1776, mentions that the anni- 
versary of the surrender of Granada to Ferdinand 
and Isabella was still observed in the city as a 
great festival and day of rejoicing; and that the 
populace on that occasion paid an annual visit to 
the Moorish palace. 

Note 34, page 119, col. 1. 
To Afric'8 wilds the royal exile flies. 
" Los Gomeles todos se passaron en Africa, y el 
Rey Chico con cllos, que no quiso cstar en Espana, 
y en Africa le mataron lo Moros de aquellas partes, 
porque perdio a. Granada." — Guerras Civilcs de 
Granada. 

Note 35, page 119, col. 2. 
Of him who knew not, as a man to die. 
Abo Abdeli, upon leaving Granada, after its 
conquest by Ferdinand and Isabella, stopped on 
the hill of Padul to take a last look of his city and 
palace. Overcome by the sight, he burst into 
tears, and was thus reproached by his mother, the 
Sultaness Ayxa : " Thou dost well to weep, like 
a woman, over the loss of that kingdom which 
thou knewest not how to defend and die for like a 



Note 30, page 119, col. 2. 

Th' avenger's task is closed. 

" El rey mando, que si quedevan Zegris, que no 

viviessen en Granada, por la maldad que hizieron 

contra los Abencerrages." — Guerras Civiles de 

Granada. 

Note 37, page 120, col. 1. 
'Midst the wild Alpuxana^ 
" The Alpuxarras are so lofty that the coast of 
Barbary, and the cities of Tangier and Ceuta, arei 
discovered from their summits; they are about | 
seventeen leagues in length, from Veles Malaga 
to Almeria, and eleven in breadth, and abound 
with fruit trees of great beauty and prodigious size. 
In these mountains the wretched remains of the 
Moors took refuge." — Bourgoanne's Travels in 
Spain. 

Note 38, page 121, col. 1. 
Were but too blest if aught remained to fear. 
" Pliit a Dieu que je craignisse !" — Andro- 
maquc. 

Note 39, page 121, col. 1. 
Rival the tints that float o'er summer skies. 
Mrs. Radcliffe, in her journey along the banks 
of the Rhine, thus describes the colors of.the gra- 



nite rocks in the mountains of the Bergstrasse. 
" The nearer we aj)proached these mountains, the 
more we had occasion to admire the various tints 
of their granites. Sometimes the precipices were 
of a faint pink, then of a deep red, a dull purple, or 
a blush approacliing to lilac, and sometimes gleams 
of a pale yellow mingled with the low shrubs that 
grew upon their sides. The day was cloudless 
and bright, and we were too near these heights to 
be deceived by the illusions of aerial colouring; 
the real hues of their features were as beautiful, as 
their magnitude was sublime." 



THE WIDOW OF CRESCENTIUS. 



" L' orage peut briser en un moment lea fleurs qui tien- 
nent encore la tete lev6e." Mad. de Stael. 



ADVERTISEMENT. 

" In the reign of Otho III. Emperor of Germa- 
ny, the Romans, excited by their Consul, Cres- 
centius, who ardently desired to restore the ancient 
glory of the republic, made a bold attempt to shake 
off the Saxon yoke, and the authority of the Popes, 
whose vices rendered them objects of universal 
contempt. The Consul was besieged by Otho in 
the Mole of Hadrian, which, long afterwards, con- 
tinued to be called the Tower of Crescentius. Otho, 
after many unavailing attacks upon his fortress, at 
last entered into negotiations; and pledging his 
imperial word to respect the life of Crescentius, 
and the rights of the Roman citizens, the unfortu- 
nate leader was betrayed into his power, and im- 
mediately beheaded, with many of his partisans. 
Stephania, his widow, concealing her affliction and 
her resentments for the insults to which she had 
been exjKJsed, secretly resolved to revenge her hus- 
band and herself On the return of Otho from a 
pilgrimage to Mount Gargano, which, perhaps, a 
feeling of remorse had induced him to undertake, 
she found means to be introduced to him, and to 
gain his confidence ; and a poison administered by 
her was soon afterwards the cause of his painful 
death." — See Sismondi, History of the Italian 
Republics, vol. i. 



PART L 

'Midst Tivoli's luxuriant glades, 
Bright-foaming falls, and olive shades. 
Where dwelt, in days departed long, 
The sons of battle and of song. 
No tree, no shrub its fohage rears. 
But o'er the wrecks of other years. 



128 



MRS. IIEMANS' WORKS. 



Temples and domes, which long have been 
The soil of that enchanted scene. 

There the wild fig-tree and the vine 
O'er Hadrian's mouldering villa twine ;(1) 
The cypress, in funereal grace, 
Usurps the vanished column's place ; 
O'er fallen shrine, and ruined frieze, 
The wall-flower rustles in the breeze ; 
Acanthus-leaves the marble hide, 
They once adorned in sculptured pride ; 
And nature hath resumed her throne 
O'er the vast works of ages flown. 
Was it for this that many a pile. 
Pride of Ilissus and of Nile, 
To Anio's banks the image lent 
Of each imperial monument ^S) 
Now Athens weeps her shattered fanes, 
Thy temples, Egypt, strew thy plains ; 
And the proud fabrics Hadrian reared 
From Tibur's vale have disappeared. 
We need no prescient sibyl there 
The doom of grandeur to declare ; 
Each stone, where weeds and ivy climb, 
Reveals some oracle of Time ; 
Each relic utters Fate's decree, 
The future as the past shall be. 

Halls of the dead ! in Tibur's vale, 
Who now shall tell your lofty tale 7 
Who trace the high patrician's dome, 
The bard's retreat, the hero's home 1 
When moss-clad wrecks alone record. 
There dwelt the world's departed lord ! 
In scenes where verdure's rich array 
Still sheds young beauty o'er decay. 
And sunshine, on each glowing hill, 
'Midst ruins finds a dwelling still. 

Sunk is thy palace, but thy tomb, 
Hadrian ! hath shared a prouder doom,(3) 
Though vanished with the days of old 
Its pillars of Corinthian mould ; 
And the fair forms by sculpture wrought, 
Each bodying some immortal thought, 
Which o'er that temple of the dead, 
Serene, but solemn beauty shed. 
Have found, like glory's self, a grave 
In time's abyss or Tiber's wave :(4) 
Yet dreams more lofty, and more fair, 
Than art's bold hand hath imaged e'er. 
High thoughts of many a mighty mind, 
Expanding when all else declined, 
In twilight years, when only they 
Recalled the radiance passed away, 
Have made that ancient pile their home 
Fortress of freedom and of Rome. 

There he, who strove, in evil days, 
Again to kindle glory's rays, 
Whose spirit sought a path of light, 
For those dim ages far too bright, 



Grescentius long maintained the strife. 

Which closed but with its martyr's life, 

And left th' imperial tomb a name, 

A heritage of holier fame. 

There closed De Brescia's mission high, 

From thence the patriot came to die :(5) 

And thou, whose Roman soul the last, 

Spoke with the voice of ages past, (6) 

Whose thoughts so long from earth had fled, 

To mingle with the glorious dead. 

That 'midst the world's degenerate race 

They vainly sought a dwelling-place, 

Within that house of death didst brood 

O'er visions to thy ruin wooed. 

Yet worthy of a brighter lot, 

Rienzi ! be thy faults forgot ! 

For thou, when all around thee lay 

Chained in the slumbers of decay ; 

So sunk each heart, that mortal eye 

Had scarce a tear for liberty ; 

Alone, amidst the darkness there, 

Couldst gaze on Rome — yet not despair !(7) 

'Tis morn, and Nature's richest dyes 
Are floating o'er Italian skies ; 
Tints of transparent lustre shine 

Along the snow-clad Appenine ; 

The clouds have left Soracte's height, 

And yellow Tiber winds in light. 

Where tombs and fallen fanes have strewed 

The wide Campagna's solitude. 

'T is amidst the scene to trace 

Those relics of a vanished race ; 

Yet o'er the ravaged path of time. 

Such glory sheds that brilliant clime, 

Where nature still, though empires fall, 

Holds her triumphal festival ; 

E'en Desolation wears a smile. 

Where skies and sunbeams laugh the while ; 

And Heaven's own light, Earth's richest bloom; 

Array the ruin and the tomb. 

But she, who from yon convent tower 

Breathes the pure freshness of the hour ; 

She, whose rich flow of raven hair 

Streams wildly on the morning air ; 

Heeds not how fair the scene below. 

Robed in Italia's brightest glow, 

Though throned 'midst Latium's classic plains, 

Th' Eternal City's towers and fanes. 

And they, the Pleiades of earth, 

The seven proud hills of Empire's birth. 

Lie spread beneath : not now her glance 

Roves o'er that vast, sublime expanse ; 

Inspired, and bright with hope, 'tis thrown 

On Hadrian's massy tomb alone ; 

There, from the storm, when Freedom fled, 

His faithful few Crescentius led ! 

While she, his anxious bride, who now 

Bends o'er the scene her youthful brow, 



TALES AND HISTORIC SCENES. 



129 



Sought refui;c in the hallowed fane, 
Which then could shelter, not in vain. 
But now the lofty strife is o'er, 
And Liberty shall weep no more. 
At length imperial Otho's voice 
Bids her devoted sons rejoice ; 
And he, who battled to restore 
The glories and the rights of yore, 
Whose accents, like the clarion's sound, 
Could burst the dead repose around, 
Again his native Rome shall see. 
The sceptred city of the free ! 
And young Stephania waits the hour 
When leaves her lord his fortress tower. 
Her ardent heart with joy elate. 
That seems boyond the reach of fate ; 
Her mien, like creature from above, 
All vivified with hope and love. 

Fair is her form, and in her eye, 
Lives all the soul of Italy ! 
A meaning lofty and inspired, 
As by her native day-star lired; 
Such wild and high expression, frauglit 
With glances of impassioned thought. 
As fancy sheds in visions bright 
O'er priestess of the God of Light ! 
And the dark locks, that lend her face 
A youthful and luxuriant grace. 
Wave o'er her cheek, whose kindling dyes 
Seem from the fire within to rise ; 
But deepened by the burning heaven 
To her own land of sunbeams given. 
Italian art that fervid glow 
Would o'er ideal beauty throw. 
And with such ardent life express 
Her high-wrought dreams of loveliness; — 
Dreams which, surviving Empire's fall 
The shade of glory still recall. 

But see, — the banner of the brave 
O'er Hadrian's tomb hath ceased to wave. 
'T is lowered — and now Stcphania's eye 
Can well the martial train descry, 
Who, issuing from that ancient dome, 
Pour through the crowded streets of Rome. 
Now from her watch-tower on the height. 
With step as fabled wood-nymph's light. 
She flies — and swift her way pursues 
Through the lone convent's avenues. 
Dark cypress-groves, and fields o'erspread 
With records of the conquering dead. 
And paths which track a glowing waste. 
She traverses in breathless haste ; 
And by the tombs where dust is shrined, 
Once tenanted by loftiest mind. 
Still passing on, hath reached the gate 
Of Rome, the proud, the desolate ! 
Thronged are the streets, and, still renewed, 
Rush on the gathering multitude. 



Is it their high-souled chief to greet 
That thus the Roman thousands meet 1 
With names that bid their thoughts ascend, 
Crcscentius, thine in song to blend ; 
And of triumphal days gone by 
Recall th' inspiring pageantry 1 
— There is an air of breathless dread, 
An eager glance, a hyrrying tread ; 
And now a fearful silence round. 
And now a fitful murmuring sound, 
'Midst the pale crowds, that almost seem 
Phantoms of some tumultuous dream. 
Ciuick is each stej), and wild each mien, 
Portentous of some awful scene. 
Bride of Crescentius ! as the throng 
Bore thee with whelming force along, 
How did thine anxious heart beat high, 
Till rose suspense to agony ! 
Too brief suspense, that soon shall close, 
And leave thy heart to decjier woes. 

Who 'midst yon guarded precinct stands, 
With fearless mien, but fettered hands 1 
The ministers of death are nigh, 
Yet a calm grandeur lights his eye ; 
And in his glance there lives a mind. 
Which was not formed for chains to bind, 
Rut cast in such heroic mould 
As theirs, th' ascendant ones of old. 
Crescentius ! freedom's daring son, 
Is this the guerdon thou hast won 7 
O worthy to have lived and died 
In the bright days of Latium's pride! 
Thus must the beam of glory close, 
O'er the seven hills again that rose, 
When at thy voice, to burst the yoke, 
The soul of Rome indignant woke 1 
Vain dream ! the sacred shields are gone, (8) 
Sunk is the crowning city's throne :(9) 
Th' illusions, that around her cast 
Their guardian spells have long been past. (10) 
Thy life hath been a shot star's ray. 
Shed o'er her midnight of decay ; 
Thy death at Freedom's ruined shrine 
Must rivet every chain — but thine. 

Calm is his aspect, and his eye 
Now fixed upon the deep blue sky. 
Now on those wrecks of ages fled. 
Around in desolation spread ; 
Arch, temple, column, worn and gray. 
Recording triumphs passed away ; 
Works of the mighty and the free. 
Whose steps on earth no more shall be. 
Though their bright course hatii left a trace 
Nor years nor sorrows can eflace; 

Why changes now the patriot's mien, 
Erewhile so loftily serene ? 
Thus can approaching death controul 
The might of that commanding soul 1 



130 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



No ! — Heard ye not that thrilling cry 

"Which told of bitterest agony? 

He heard it, and, at once subdued, 

Hath sunk the hero's fortitude. 

He heard it, and his heart too well 

Whence rose that voice of wo can tell ; 

And 'midst the gazing throngs around 

One well known form his glance hath found ; 

One fondly loving and beloved, 

In grief, in peril, faithful proved. 

Yes, in the wildness of despair. 

She, his devoted bride is there. 

Pale, breathless, through the crowd she flies, 

The light of frenzy in her eyes : 

But ere her arms can clasp the form 

Which life ere long must cease to warm ; 

Ere on his agonizing breast 

Her heart can heave, her head can rest ; 

Checked in her course by ruthless hands, 

Mute, motionless, at once she stands ; 

With bloodless cheek and vacant glance, 

Frozen and fixed in horror's trance ; 

Spell-bound, as every sense were fled, 

And thought o'erwhelmed, and feehng dead. 

And the light waving of her hair, 

And veil, far floating on the air, 

Alone, in that dread moment, show 

She is no sculptured form of wo. 

The scene of grief and death is o'er, 
The patriot's heart shall throb no more : 
But hers — so vainly formed to prove 
The pure devotedness of love. 
And draw from fond affection's eye 
All thought sublime, all feeling high ; 
When consciousness again shall wake, 
Hath now no refuge — but to break. 
The spirit long inured to pain 
May smile at fate in calm disdain ; 
Survive its darkest hour, and rise 
In more majestic energies. 
But in the glow of vernal pride. 
If each warm hope at once hath died. 
Then sinks the mind, a blighted flower, 
Dead to the sunbeam and the shower ; 
A broken gem, whose inborn light 
Is scattered — ne'er to re-unite. 



PART II. 

Hast thou a scene that is not spread 
With records of thy glory fled 7 
A monument that doth not tell 
The tale of liberty's farewell 1 
Italia ! thou art but a grave 
Where flowers luxuriate o'er the brave. 
And nature gives her treasures birth 
O'er all that hath been great on earth. 



Yet smile thy heavens as once they smiled. 

When thou wert Freedom's favoured child : 

Though fane and tomb alike are low. 

Time hath not dimmed thy sunbeam's glow ; 

And robed in that exulting ray, 

Thou seem'st to triumph o'er decay; 

O yet, though by thy sorrows bent, 

In nature's pomp magnificent ; 

What marvel if, when all was lost. 

Still on thy bright enchanted coast, 

Though many an omen warned him thence, 

Lingered the lord of eloquence !(11) 

Still gazing on the lovely sky, 

Whose radience wooed him — but to die ; 

Like him who would not linger there. 

Where heaven, earth, ocean, all are fair 1 

Who 'midst thy glowing scenes could dwell, 

Nor bid awhile his griefs farewell 1 

Hath not thy pure and genial air 

Balm for all sadness but despair 7(12) 

No ! there are pangs, whose deep-worn trace 

Not all thy magic can efface ! 

Hearts, by unkindness wrung, may learn 

The world and all its gifts to spurn ; 

Time may steal on with silent tread. 

And dry the tear that mourns the dead ; 

May change fond love, subdue regret 

And teach e'en vengeance to forget ; 

But thou. Remorse ! there is no charm, 

Thy sting, avenger, to disarm ! 

Vain are bright suns and laughing skies. 

To sooth thy victim's agonies : 

The heart once made thy burning throne, 

Still, while it beats, is thine alone. 

In vain for Otho's joyless eye 
Smile the fair scenes of Italy, 
As through her landscapes' rich array 
Th' imperial pilgrim bends his way. 
Thy form, Crescentius on his sight 
Rises when nature laughs in light, 
Glides round him at the midnight hour; 
Is present in his festal bower. 
With awful voice and frowning mien. 
By all but him unheard, unseen, 
Oh ! thus to shadows of the grave 
Be every tjTrant still a slave ! 

Where through Gargano's woody dells. 
O'er bending oaks the north-wind swells,(13) 
A sainted hermit's lowly tomb 
Is bosomed in umbrageous gloom. 
In shades that saw him live and die 
Beneath their waving canopy. 
'Twas his, as legends tell, to share 
The converse of immortals there ; 
Around that dweller of the wild 
There "bright appearances" have smiled,(14) 
And angel-wings, at eve, have been 
Gleaming the sliadowy boughs between. 



TALES AND HISTORIC SCENES. 



131 



And oft from that secluded bower 
Hath breathed, at midnight's calmer hour, 
A swell of viewless harps, a sound 
Of warbled anthems pealing round. 
Oh, none but voices of the sky 
Might wake that thrilling harmony, 
Whose tones, whose very echoes made 
An Eden of the lonely shade ! 

Years have gone by ; the hermit sleeps 
Amidst Gargano's woods and steeps ! 
Ivy and flowers have half o'ergrown 
And veiled his low, sepulchral stone : 
Yet still the spot is holy, still 
Celestial footsteps haunt the hill ; 
And oft the awe-struck mountaineei; 
Aerial vesper-hymns may hear 
Around those forest-precincts float. 
Soft, solenm, clear, — but still remote. 
Oft will AflSiction breathe her plaint 
To that rude shrine's departed saint, 
And deem that spirits of the blest 
There shed sweet influence o'er her breast. 

And thither Otho now repairs, 
To sooth his soul with vows and prayers ; 
And if for him, on holy ground, 
The lost one. Peace, may yet be found, 
'Midst rocks and forests, by the bed. 
Where calmly sleep the sainted dead, 
She dwells, remote from heedless eye, 
With Nature's lonely majesty. 

Vain, vain the search — his troubled breast 
No vow nor penance lulls to rest ; 
The weary pilgrimage is o'er 
The hopes that cheered it are no more. 
Then sinks his soul, and day by day, 
Youth's buoyant energies decay. 
The light of health his eye hath flown. 
The glow that tinged his cheek is gone. 
Joyless as one on whom is laid 
Some baleful spoil that bids him fade, 
Extending its mysterious power 
O'er every scene, o'er every hour; 
E'en thus he withers ; and to him, 
Italia's brilliant skies are dim. 
He withers — in that glorious clime 
Where Nature laughs in scorn of Time ; 
And suns, that shed on all below 
Their full and vivifying glow. 
From him alone their power withhold, 
And leave his heart in darkness cold. 
Earth blooms around him, heaven is fair. 
He only seems to perish there. 

Yet sometimes will a transient smile 
Play o'er his faded cheek awhile. 
When breathes his minstrel-boy a strain 
Of power to lull all earthly pain ; 
So wildly sweet, its notes might seem 
Th' ethereal music of a dream, 



A spirit's voice from worlds unknown, 

Deep thrilling power in every tone ! 

Sweet is that lay, and yet its flow 

Hath language only given to wo; 

And if at times its wakening swell 

Some talc of glory seems to tell. 

Soon the proud notes of triumph die, 

Lost in a dirge's harmony: 

Oh ! many a pang the heart hath proved, 

Hath deeply suffered, fondly loved. 

Ere the sad strain could catch from thence 

Such deep impassioned eloquence ! 

Yes ! gaze on him, that minstrel boy — 

He is no child of hope and joy ; 

Though few his years, yet have they been 

Such as leave traces on the mien. 

And o'er the roses of our prime 

Breathe other bliglits than those of time. 

Yet, seems his spirit wild and proud, 
By grief unsoftcned and unbowed. 
Oh ! there are sorrows which impart 
A sternness foreign to the heart. 
And rushing with an earthquake's power, 
That makes a desert in an hour ; 
Rouse the dread passions in their course. 
As tempest wake the billows' force ! — 
'Tis sad, on youthful Guido's face. 
The stamp of woes like these to trace. 
Oh ! where can ruins awe mankind 
Dark as the ruins of the mind 1 

His mien is lofty, but his gaze 
Too well a wandering soul betrays : 
His full, dark eye at times is bright 
With strange and momentary light 
Whose quick uncertain flashes throw 
O'er his pale cheek a hectic glow : 
And oft his features and his air 
A shade of troubled mystery wear, 
A glance of hurried wildness, fraught 
With some unfathomable thought. 
Whate'er that thought, still unexpressed. 
Dwells the sad secret in his breast ; 
The pride his haughty brow reveals. 
All other passion well conceals. 
He breathes each wounded feeling's tone 
In music's eloquence alone ; 
His soul's deep voice is only poured 
Through his full song and swelling chord. 
He seeks no friend, but shuns the train 
Of courtiers with a proud disdain ; 
And, save when Otho bids his lay 
Its half unearthly power essay, 
In hall or bower the heart to thrill, 
His haunts are wild and lonely still. 
Far distant from the heedless throng. 
He roves old Tiber's hanks along. 
Where Empire's desolate remains 
Lie scattered o'er the silent plains : 



132 



MRS. HEMAKS' WORKS. 



Or, lingering 'midst each ruined shrine 
That strews the desert Palatine, 
With mournful, yet commanding mien, 
Like the sad Genius of the scene. 
Entranced in awful thought appears 
To commune with departed years. 
Or at the dead of night, when Rome 
Seems of heroic shades the home ; 
When Tiber's murmuring voice recalls 
The mighty to their ancient halls ; 
When hushed is every meaner sound. 
And the deep moonlight-calm around 
Leaves to the solemn scene alone 
The majesty of ages flown ; 
A pilgrim to each hero's tomb. 
He wanders through the sacred gloom ; 
And 'midst those dwellings of decay, 
At times will breathe so sad a lay. 
So wild a grandeur in each tone, 
'Tis like a dirge for empires gone ! 

Awake thy pealing harp again. 
But breathe a more exulting strain. 
Young Guide ! for awhile forgot 
Be the dark secrets of thy lot. 
And rouse th' inspiring soul of song 
To speed the banquet's hour along ! — 
The feast is spread ; and music's call 
Is echoing through the royal hall. 
And banners wave, and trophies shine, 
O'er stately guests in glittering line ; 
And Otho seeks awhile to chase 
The thoughts he never can erase, 
And bid the voice, whose murmurs deep 
Rise like a spirit on his sleep, 
The still small voice of conscience die, 
Lost in the din of revelry. 
On his pale brow dejection lowers, 
But that shall yield to festal hours; 
A gloom is in his faded eye, 
But that from music's power shall fly: 
His wasted cheek is wan with care. 
But mirth shall spread fresh crimson there. 
Wake, Guido ! wake thy numbers high 
Strike the bold chord exultingly ! 
And pour upon th' enraptured ear 
Such strains as warriors love to hear ! 
Let the rich mantling goblet flow, 
And banish all resembling wo ; 
And, if a thought intrude, of power 
To mar the bright convivial hour, 
Still must its influence lurk unseen, 
And cloud the heart — but not the mien ! 

Away, vain dream ! — on Otho's brow, 
Still darker lower the shadows now; 
Changed are his features, now o'erspread 
With the cold paleness of the dead; 
Now crimsoned with a hectic dye, 
The burning flush of agony ! 



His lip is quivering, and his breast 
Heaves with convulsive pangs oppressed ; 
Now his dim eye seems fixed and glazed, 
And now to heaven in anguish raised ; 
And as, with unavaiUng aid, 
Around him throng his guests dismayed. 
He sinks — while scarce his struggling breath 
Hath power to falter — " This is death!" 

Then rushed that haughty child of song 
Dark Guido, througii the awe-struck throng; 
Filled with a strange delirious light. 
His kindling eye shone wildly bright, 
And on the sufferer's mien awhile 
Gazing with stern vindictive smile, 
A feverish gl»w of triumph dyed 
Hia burning cheek, while thus he cried : — 
" Yes! these are death-pangs — on thy brow 
Is set the seal of vengeance now ! 
Oh ! well was mixed the deadly draught, 
And long and deeply hast thou quaffed ; 
And bitter as thy pangs may be. 
They are but guerdons meet from me! 
Yet, these are but a moment's throes, 
Howe'er intense, they soon shall close 
Soon shalt thou yield thy fleeting breath, 
My life hath been a lingering death ; 
Since one dark hour of wo and crime, 
A blood-spot on the page of time ! 

" Deemest thou my mind of reason void 
It is not phrenzied, — but destroyed ! 
Ay ! view the wreck with shuddering thought,- 
That work of ruin thou hast wrought ! 

" The secret of thy doom to tell. 
My name alone suflSces well ! 
Stephania ! — once a hero's bride ! 
Otho ! thou knowest the rest — he died. 
Yes! trusting to a monarch's word. 
The Roman fell, untried, unheard ! 
And thou, whose every pledge was vain, 
How couldst thou trust in aught again 1 

" He died, and I was changed — my soul, 
A lonely wanderer, spurned control. 
From peace, and light, and glory hurled, 
The outcast of a purer world, 
I saw each brighter hope o'erthrown. 
And lived for one dread task alone. 
The task is closed — fulfilled the vow. 
The hand of death is on thee now. 
Betrayer! in thy turn betrayed. 
The debt of blood shall soon be paid I 
Thine hour is come — the time hath been 
My heart had shrunk from such a scene 
That feeling long is past — my fate 
Hath made me stern as desolate. 

" Ye that around me shuddering stand. 
Ye chiefs and princes of the land ! 
Mourn ye a guilty monarch's doom? 
— Ye wept not o'er the patriot's tomb! 



TALES AND HISTORIC SCENES. 



133 



He sleeps unhonored — yet be mine 
To share his low, neglected shrine. 
His soul with freedom finds a home, 
His grave is that of glory — Rome ! 
Are not the great of old with her, 
That city of the sepulchrel 
Lead me to death! and let me share 
The slumbers of the mighty there !" 
The day departs — that fearful day 
Fades in calm loveliness away: 
From purple heavens its lingering beam 
Seems melting into Tiber's stream, 
And softly tints each Roman hill 
With glowing light, as clear and still, 
As if, unstained by crime or wo. 
Its hours had passed in silent flow. 
The day sets calmly — it hath been 
Marked with a strange and awful scene : 
One guilty bosom throbs no more. 
And Otho's pangs and life are o'er. 
And thou, ere yet another sun 
His burning race hath brightly run. 
Released from anguish by thy foes, 
Daughter of Rome I shall find repose. — 
Yes! on thy country's lovely sky 
Fix yet once more thy parting eye! 
A few short hours — and all shall be 
The silent and the past for thee. 
Oh! thus with tempests of a day 
We struggle, and we pass away, 
Like the wild billows as they sweep 
Leaving no vestige on the deep ! 
And o'er thy dark and lowly bed 
The sons of future days shall tread, 
The pangs, the conflicts, of thy lot, 
By them unknown, by thee forgot. 



NOTES. 

Note 1, page 128, col. I. 

O'er Hadrian's mouldering villa twine. 

J'etais alle passer quelqucs jours seul a Tivoli. 
Je parcourus les environs, et surtout celles de la 
Villa Adriana. Surpris par la pluie au milieu de 
ma course, je me refugiai dans les Sallcs des 
Thermes voisins du Pccile (monumens de la 
villa), sous un figuier qui avait renverse le pan 
d'un mur en s'elevant. Dans un petit salon octo- 
gone, ouvert devant moi, une vigne vierge avait 
perce la voule de I'cdifice, et son gros cep lisse, 
rouge, et tortueux, montait le long du mur comme 
un serpent. Autour de moi, a travers les arcades 
des mines, s'ouvraient des points de vue sur la 
Campagne Romaine. Des buissons de sureau 
remplissaient les salles desertes ou venaient se 
refugier quelques merles solitaires. Les fragmens 
de mafonnerie etaient tapisses de feuilles de sco- 



lopendre, dont la verdure satinee se dessinait 
comme un travail en mosaique sur la blancheur 
des marbres: ^a et la de hauts cypres remplafaient 
les colonnes tombees dans ces palais de la Mort; 
I'acanthe sauvage rampait a leurs picds, sur des 
debris, comme si la nature s'etait plu a reproduire 
sur ces chefs-d'oeuvre mutilcs d'architecture, I'orna- 
ment de leur beautc passee." — Chateaubriand. 
Souvenirs d'ltalie. 

Note 2, page 128, col. 1. 

Of each imperial monument. 
The gardens and buildings of Hadrian's villa 
were copies of the most celebrated scenes and 
edifices in his dominions ; the Lycoeum, the Aca- 
demia, the Pyrtaneum of Athens, the Temple of 
Scrapis at Alexandria, the Vale of Tempe, &c. 

Note 3, page lOS, col. 1. 
Sunk is thy palace, but thy tomb, 
Hadrian ! hath sliared a prouder doom. 

The mausoleum of Hadrian, now the castle of 
St. Angelo, was first converted into a citadel by 
Belisarius, in his successful defence of Rome 
against the Goths. "The lover of the arts," says 
Gibbon, " must read with a sigh, that the works 
of Praxiteles and Lysippus were torn froin their 
lofty pedestals, and hurled-into the ditch on the 
heads of the besiegers." He adds, in a note, that 
the celebrated Sleeping Faun of the Barbarini 
palace was found, in a mutilated state, when the 
ditch of St. Angelo was cleansed under Urban 
VIII. In the middle ages, the moles Hadriani 
was made a permanent fortress by the Roman 
government, and bastions, outworks, &c. were 
added to the original edifice, which had been 
stripped of its marble covering, its Corinthian pil- 
lars, and the brazen cone which crowned its sum- 
mit. 

Note 4, page 128, col. 1. 

Have found, like glory's self, a grave, 

In time's abyss, or Tiber's wave. 
"Les plus beaux monumens des arts, les plus 
admirables statues ont etes jetees dans le Tibre, 
et sont cachees sous se^ flots. Clui sait si, pour les 
chercher, on ne le dctournera pas un jour de son 
lit"? Mais quand on songe que les chef-d'oeuvres 
du genie humain sont peutetre la devant nous, et 
qu'un ceil plus percant les verrait a travers les 
ondes, I'on eprouve je ne sais quelle emotion qui 
renait a Rome sans cesse sous diverges formes, et 
fait trouver une societe pour la pensee dans les 
objets physiques, muets partout ailleurs." — Mad. 
de Stael. 

Note 5, page 128, col. 2. 

There closed Ue Brescia's mission high, 
From thence the patriot came to die. 

Arnold de Brescia, the undaunted and eloquent 



134 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



champion of Roman liberty, after unremitting 
efforts to restore the ancient constitution of the 
republic, was put to death in the year 1155 by 
Adrian IV. This event is thus described by 
Sisniondi, Histoire des Republiques Italiennes, 
vol. ii. pages 68 and 69. " Le prefect demeura 
dans le chateau Saint Ange avec son prisonnier ; 
il le fit transporter un matin sur la place destinee 
aux executions, devant la Porte du Peuple. Ar- 
naud de Brescia, eleve sur un bucher, fut attache 
a un poteau, en face du Corso. II pouvoit uiesu- 
rer des yeux Ics trois longues rues qui oboutis- 
soient devant son cchafaud ; elles font presqu' une 
moiete de Rome. C'est la qu'habitoient les 
hommesqu'il avoit si souvent appeles a la biberte. 
lis reposoient encore en paix, ignorant le danger 
de leur legislateur. Le tumultc de I'execution et 
la flamme du bucher reveillerent les Romains ; ils 
s'armerent, ils accoururent, mais trop tard; et les 
cohortes du pape repoussorent, avec leurs lances, 
ee.uxqui, n'ayant pu sauver Arnaud, vouloient du 
nioins recueillir ses cendres comme de precieuses 
rcliques." 

Note 6, page 128, col. 2. 
Spoke with the voice of ages past. 
"Posterity will compare the virtues and failings 
of this extraordinary man ; but in a long period 
of anarchy and servitude the name of Rienzi has 
otlen been celebrated as the deliverer of his coun- 
try, and the last of the Roman patriots." — Gibbon's 
Decline and Fall, c^c. vol. xii. p. 362. 

Note 7, page 138, col. 2. 

Couldst gaze on Rome — yet not despair. 

" Le consul Terentius Varron avoit fui hon- 
teusement jusqu'a Venouse: cet homme de la 
plus basse naissance, n' avoit ete eleve au consulat 
que pour mortifier la noblesse: mais le senat ne 
voulut pas jouir de ce malheureux triomphe ; il vit 
combien il etoit necessaire qu'il s'attirat dans cette 
occasion la confiance du peuple, il alia au-devant 
Varron, et le remercia de ce qu'il n'avoit pas 
ddsespere de la republique." — Montesquieu. Gran- 
deur et Decadence des Romains. 

Note 8, page 129, col. 2. 
Vain dream ! the sacred shields are gone. 
Of the sacred bucklers, or ancilia of Rome, 
which were kept in the temple of Mars, Plutarch 
gives the following account. " In the eighth year 
of Numa's reign a pestilence prevailed in Italy; 
Rome also felt its ravages. While the people 
were oreatly dejected, 'vVe are told that a brazen 
buckler fell from heaven into the hands of Numa. 
Of this he gave a very wonderful account, re- 
ceived from Egeria and the Muses: that the buck- 
ler was sent down for the preservation of the city, 



and should be kept with great care: that eleven 
others should be made as like it as possible 
in size and fashion, in order that if any person 
were disposed to steal it, he might not be able to 
distinguish that which fell from heaven from the 
rest. He further declared, that the place, and the 
meadows about it, where he frequently conversed 
with the Muses, should be consecrated to those 
divinities ; and that the spring which watered the 
ground should be sacred to the use of the Vestal 
Vjrgins, daily to sprinkle and purify their temple. 
The immediate cessation of the pestilence is said 
to have confirmed the truth of this account." — 
Li/e of Numa. 

Note 9, page 129, col. 2. 

Sunk is the crowning city's throne. 

"Who hath taken counsel against Tyre, the 

crowning city, whose merchants are princes, 

whose traffickers are the honourable of the earth?" 

— Isaiah, chap, xxiii. 

Note 10, page 129, col. 2. 
Their guardian spells have long been past. 
" [In melange bizarre de grandeur d'ame, et de 
fbiblesse entroit des cette epoque (I'onzieme siecle) 
dans le caractere des Romains. — Un mouvement 
genereux vers les grandes choses faisoit place 
tout-a-coup a I'abattement; ils passoient de la 
liberte la plus orageuse, a la servitude la plus 
avilissante. On auroit dit que les mines tenoient 
ses habitaus dans les sentiment de leur impuiset 
les portiques deserts de la capitale du monde, en- 
tresance; au milieu de ces monumens 'de leur 
domination passee, les citoyens eprouvoient d'une 
maniere trop dccourageante leur propre nullite. 
Le nom des Romains qu'ils portoient ranimoit 
frequemment leur enthousiasme, comme il le ra- 
nime encore aujourd'hui; mais bientot la vue de 
Rome, du Forum desert, des sept collines de nou- 
veru rendues au paturage des troupeaux, des tem- 
ples desoles, des monumens tombant en mine, les 
ramenoit a sentir qu'ils n'etoient plus les Romains 
d' autrefois." — Sismondi. Histoire des Repub- 
liques Italiennes, vol. i. p. 172. 

Note 11, page 130, col. 2. 

Lingered the lord of eloquence'} 
" As for Cicero, he was carried to Astyra, where, 
finding a vessel, he immediately went on board, 
coasted along to CircEeum with a favourable wind. 
The pilots were preparing immediately to sail from 
thence, but whether it was that he feared the sea, 
or had not yet given up all hopes in Caesar, he dis- 
embarked, and travelled a hundred furlongs on 
foot, as if Rome had been the place of his desti- 
nation. Repenting, however, afterwards, he left 
that road and made again for the sea. He passed 



TALES AND HISTORIC SCENES. 



135 



the night in the most perplexing and horrid thoughts; 
insomuch, that he was sometimes inclined to go 
privately into Cajsar's house and stab himself up- 
on the altar of his domestic gods, to bring the di- 
vine vengeance upon his betrayer. But he was 
deterred from this by the fear of torture. Other 
alternatives equally distressful presented them- 
selves. At last he put himself in the hands of his 
servants, and ordered them to carry him by sea to 
Cajeta, where he had a delightful retreat in the 
summer, when the Etesian winds set in. There 
was a temple of Apollo on that coast, from which 
a flight of crows came with great noise towards 
Cicero's vessel as it was making land. They perch- 
ed on both sides the sail-yard, where some sat 
croaking, and others pecking the ends of the ropes. 
All looked upon this as an ill omen ; yet Cicero 
went on shore, and, entering his house, lay down 
to repose himself. In the mean time a number of 
crows settled in the chamber-window, and croak- 
ed in the most doleful manner. One of them even 
entered it, and alighting on the bed, attempted, 
with its beak, to draw ofl' the clothes with which 
he had covered his face. On sight of this, the 
servants began to reproach themselves. ' Shall 
we,' said they, ' remain to be spectators of our 
master's murder ? Shall we not protect him, so 
innocent and so great a sufferer as he is, when the 
brute creatures give him marks of their care and 
attention V Then, partly by entreaty, partly by 
force, they got him into his litter, and carried him 
towards the sea." — Plutarch. Life of Cicero. 

Note 12, page 130, col. 2. 
Balm for all sadness but despair 'I 
" Now purer air 
Meets his approach, and to the heart inspires 
Vernal delight and joy, able to drive 
All sadness but despair." — Milton. 

Note 13, page 130, col. 2. 
O'er bending oaks the north-wind swells. 
Mount Gargano. " This ridge of mountains 
forms a very large promontory advancing into the 
Adriatic, and separated from the Apennines on 
the west by the plains of Lucera and San Severo. 
We took a ride into the heart of the mountains 
through shady dells and noble woods, which brought 
to our minds the venerable groves that in ancient 
times bent with the loud winds sweeping along the 
rugged sides of Garganus. 

'Aquilonibus 
Querceta Gargani laborant, 
Et folils viduantur orni.' — Horace. 

" There is a respectable forest of evergreen and 
common oak, pine, hornbeam, chestnut, and manna- 
ash. The sheltered valleys arc industriously cul- 
tivated, and seem to be blest with luxuriant vege- 
tation." — Swinburne's Travels. 



Note 14, page 130, col. 2. 
There " bright appearances" have emiled. 
"In yonderncther world where shall I seek 
His bright appearances, or footstep tracel" — Milton. 



THE LAST BANQ.UET OF ANTONY 
AND CLEOPATRA. 



" Antony, concluding that he could not die more 
honourably than in battle, determined to attack 
Csesar at the same time both by sea and land. The 
night preceding the execution of this design, he 
ordered his servants at supper to render him their 
best services that evening, and fill the wine round 
plentifully, for the day following they might belong 
to another master, whilst he lay extended on the 
ground, no longer of consequence either to them 
or to himself His friends were affected, and wept 
to hear him talk thus ; which when he perceived, 
he encouraged them by assurances that his expec- 
tations of a glorious victory were at least equal to 
those of an honourable death. At the dead of 
night, when universal silence reigned through the 
city, a silence that was deepened by the awful 
thought of the ensuing day, on a sudden was heard 
the sound of musical instruments, and a noise which 
resembled the exclamations of Bacchanals. This 
tumultuous procession seemed to pass through the 
whole city, and to go out at the gate which led to 
the enemy's camp. Those who reflected on this 
prodigy concluded that Bacchus, the god whom 
Antony affected to imitate, had then forsaken 
him." — Langhorne's Plutarch^ 



Thy foes had girt thee with their dread array, 

O stately Alexandria! — yet the sound 
Of mirth and music, at the close of day, 

Swelled from thy splendid fabrics far around 
O'er camp and wave. Within the royal hall. 

In gay magnificence the feast was spread ; 
And, brightly streaming from the pictured wall, 

A thousand lamps their trembling lustre shed 
O'er many a column rich with precious dyes. 
That tinge the marble's vein, 'neath Afric's burn- 
ing skies. 

And soft and clear that wavering radiance played 

O'er sculptured forms, that round the pillared 
scene 
Calm and majestic rose, by art arrayed 

In godlike beauty, awfully serene. 
Oh ! how unlike the troubled guests, reclined 

Round that luxurious board ! — in every face, 
Some shadow from the tempest of the mind 

Rising by fits, the searching eye might trace. 



136 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



Though vainly masked in smiles which are not 

mirth, 
But the proud spirit's veil thrown o'er the woes of 

earth. 

Their brows are bound with wreaths whose tran- 
sient bloom 

May still survive the wearers — and the rose 
Perchance may scarce be withered, when the tomb 

Receives the mighty to its dark repose ! 
The day must dawn on battle — and may set 

In death — but fill the mantling wine-cup high ! 
Despair is fearless, and the Fates e'en yet 

Lend her one hour for parting revelry. 
They who the empire of the world possessed, 
Would tasteitsjoys again, ere all exchanged for rest. 

Its joys ! oh ! mark yon proud triumvir's mien, 

And read their annals on that brow of care ! 
'Midst pleasure's lotus-bowers his steps have been ; 

Earth's brightest pathway led him to despair. 
Trust not the glance that fain would yet inspire 

The buoyant energies of days gone by ; 
There is delusion in its meteor-fire, 

And all within is shame, is agony ! 
Away ! the tear in bitterness may flow. 
But there are smiles which bear a stamp of deeper wo. 

Thy cheek is sunk, and faded as thy fame, 

O lost, devoted Roman ! yet thy brow 
To that ascendant and undying name, 

Pleads with stern loftiness thy right e'en now. 
Thy glory is departed — but hath left 

A lingering light around thee — in decay 
Not less than kingly, though of all bereft. 

Thou seem'st as empire had not passed away. 
Supreme in ruin ! .teaching hearts elate, 
A deep, prophetic dread of still mysterious fate ! 

But thou, enchantress-queen! whose love hath 
made 

His desolation — thou art by his side, 
In all thy sovereignty of charms arrayed, 

To meet the storm with still unconquered pride. 
Imperial being ! e'en though many a stain 

Of error be upon thee, there is power 
In thy commanding nature, which shall reign 

O'er the stern genius of misfortune's hour 
And the dark beauty of thy troubled eye 
E'en now is all illumed with wild sublimity. 

Thine aspect, all impassioned, wears a light 

Inspiring and inspired — thy cheek a dye, 
Which rises not from joy, but yet is bright 

With the deep glow of feverish energy. 
Proud siren of the Nile ! thy glance is fraught 

With an immortal fire — in every beam 
It darts, there kindles some heroic thought, 

But wild and awful as a sibyl's dream ; 



For thou with death hast communed, to attain 
Dread knowledge of the pangs that ransom from 
the chain. (1) 

And the stern courage by such musings lent, 

Daughter of Afric I o'er thy beauty throws 
The grandeur of a regal spirit, blent 

With all the majesty of mighty woes ! 
While he, so fondly, fatally adored. 

Thy fallen Roman, gazes on thee yet. 
Till scarce the soul, that once exulting soared, 

Can deem the day-star of its glory set ; 
Scarce his charmed heart believes that power can be 
In sovereign fate, o'er him, thus fondly loved by 
thee. 

But there is sadness in the eyes around. 

Which mark that ruined leader, and survey 
His changeful mien, whence oft the gloom profound 

Strange triumph chases haughtily away. 
" Fill the bright goblet, warrior guests !" he cries, 

" CLuaff, ere we part, the generous nectar deep ! 
Ere sunset gild once more the western skies, 

Your chief, in cold forgetfulness, may sleep, 
While sounds of revel float o'er shore and sea, 
And the red bowl again is crowned — but not for 



" Yet weep not thus — the struggle is not o'er! 

O victors of Phihppi ! many a field 
Hath yielded palms to us : — one efl^ort more, 

By one stern conflict must our doom be sealed ! 
Forget not, Romans ! o'er a subject world 

How royally your eagle's wing hath spread, 
Though from his eyrie of dominion hurled. 

Now burst the tempest on his crested head ; 
Yet sovereign still, if banished from the sky, 
The sun's indignant bird, he must not droop — but 
die." 

The feast is o'er. 'T is night, the dead of night — 

Unbroken stillness broods o'er earth and deep; 
From Egypt's heaven of soft and starry light 

The moon looks cloudless o'er a world of sleep : 
For those who wait the morn's awakening beams, 

The battle signal to decide their doom. 
Have sunk to feverish rest and troubled dreams ; 

Rest, that shall soon be calmer in the tomb, 
Dreams, dark and ominous, but there to cease. 
When sleep the lords of war in solitude and peace. 

Wake, slumberers, wake! Hark! heard ye not a 
sound 
Of gathering tumult? — near and nearer still 
Its murmur swells. Above, below, around, ' 

Bursts a strange chorus forth, confused and 
shrill. 
Wake, Alexandria! through thy streets the tread 
Of steps unseen is hurrying, and the note 



TALES AND HISTORIC SCENES. 



137 



Of pipe, and lyre, and trumpet, wild and dread, 

Is heard upon the midnight air to float ; 
And voices, clamorous as in phrenzied mirth, 
Mingle their thousand tones which are not of the 
earth. 

These are no mortal sounds — their thrilling strain 

Hath more mysterious power, and birth more 
high ; 
And the deep horror chilling every vein 

Owns them of stern terrific augury. 
Beings of worlds unknown ! ye pass away, 

O ye invisible and awful throng ! 
Your echoing footsteps and resounding lay 

To CsBsar's camp exulting move along. 
Thy gods forsake thee, Antony! the sky 
By that dread sign reveals — thy doom — " Despair 
and die! "(2) 



NOTES. 

Note 1, page 136, col. 2. 
Dread knowledge of the pangs that ransom from the chain. 

Cleopatra made a collection of poisonous drugs, 
and being desirous to know which was least pain- 
ful in the operation, she tried them on the capital 
convicts. Such poisons as were quick in their 
operation, she found to be attended with violent 
pain and convulsions ; such as were mildest were 
slow in their effect : she therefore applied herself 
to the examination of venomous creatures ; at 
length she found that the bite of the asp was tlie 
most eligible kind of death, for it brought on a 
gradual kind of lethargy. — See Plutarch. 

Note 2, page 137, col. 1. 

Despair and die ! 

"To-morrow in the battle think on me, 

And fall thy edgeless sword ; despair and die !" 

'Ricliard III. 



ALARIC IN ITALY. 



pedition which he already meditated against the 
continent of Africa. The straits of Rhegium and 
Messina are twelve miles in length, and, in the 
narrowest passage, about one mile and a hall 
broad ; and the fabulous monsters of the deep, the 
rocks of Scylla, and the whirlpool of Charybdis, 
could terrify none but the most timid and unskil- 
ful mariners : yet, as soon as the first division of 
the Goths had embarked, a sudden tempest arose, 
which sunk or scattered many of the transports : 
their courage was daunted by the terrors of a new 
element ; and the whole design was defeated by 
the premature death of Alaric, which fixed, after 
a short illness, the fatal term of his conquests. 
The ferocious character of the barbarians was dis- 
played in the funeral of a hero, whose valor and 
fortune they celebrated with mournful applau.se. 
By the labour of a captive multitude they forcibly 
diverted the course of the Busentinus, a small river 
that washes the walls of Consentia. The royal 
sepulchre, adorned with the splendid spoils and 
trophies of Rome, was constructed in the vacant 
bed ; the waters were then restored to their natu- 
ral channel, and the .secret spot, where the re- 
mains of Alaric had been deposited, was for ever 
concealed by the inhuman massacre of the prison- 
ers who had been employed to execute the work." 
— See The Decline and Pall of the Roman Em- 
pire, vol. v. p. 339. 



After describing the conquest of Greece and 
Italy by the German and Scythian hordes, united 
under the command of Alaric, the historian of 
" The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire," 
thus proceeds: — "Whether fame, or conquest, or 
riches, were the object of Alaric, he pursued that 
object with an indefatigable ardor, which could 
neither be quelled by adversity, nor satiated by 
success. No sooner had he reached the extreme 
land of Italy than he was attracted by the neigh- 
bouring prospect of a fair and peaceful island. 
Yet even the possession of Sicily he considered 
only as an intermediate step to the important ex- 



Heard ye the Gothic trumpet's blasti 
The march of hosts, as Alaric passed 1 
His steps have tracked that glorious clime, 
The birth-place of heroic time; 
But he, in northern deserts bred. 
Spared not the living for the dead,(l) 
Nor heard the voice, whose pleading cries 
From temple and from toml) arise. 
He passed — the light of burning fanes 
Hath been his torch o'er Grecian plains ; 
And woke they not — the brave, the free. 
To guard their own Thermopylae? 
And left they not their silent dwelling, 
When Scythia's note of war was swcllinffl 
No! where tlic bold Three Hundred slept, 
Sad freedom battled not — but we[)t! 
For nerveless then the Spartan's hand. 
And Thebes could rouse no Sacred Band; 
Nor one high soul from slumber broke, 
When Athens owned the northern yoke. 

But was there none for thee to dare 
The conflict, scorning to despair? 
O city of the seven proud hills ! 
Whose name e'en yet the spirit thrills, 
As doth a clarion's battle-call, 
Didst thou too, ancient empress, fall? 
Did not Camillus from the chain 
Ransom thy Capitol again? 



138 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



Oh ! who shall tell the days to be, 
No patriot rose to bleed for thee 1 

Heard ye the Gothic trumpet's blast? 
The march of hosts, as Alaric passed 1 
That fearful sound, at midnight deep,(2) 
Burst on th' eternal city's sleep : 
How woke the mighty? She, whose will 
So long had bid the world be still. 
Her sword a sceptre, and her eye 
Th' ascendant star of destiny! 
She woke — to view the dread array 
Of Scythians rushing to their prey, 
To hear her streets resound the cries 
Poured from a thousand agonies ! 
While the strange light of flames, that gave 
A ruddy glow to Tiber's wave, 
Bursting in that terrific hour 
From fane and palace, dome and tower, 
Revealed the throngs, for aid divine 
Clinging to many a worshipped shrine ; 
Fierce, fitful radiance wildly shed 
O'er spear and sword with carnage red, 
Shone o'er the suppliant and the flying, 
And kindled pyres for Romans dying. 

Weep, Italy ! alas ! that e'er 
Should tears alone thy wrongs declare ! 
The time hath been when thy distress 
Had roused up empires for redress ! 
Now, her long race of glory run, 
Without a combat Rome is won. 
And from her plundered temples forth 
Rush the fierce children of the north, 
To share beneath more genial skies 
Each joy their own rude clime denies. 
Ye who on bright Campania's shore 
Bade your fair villas rise of yore. 
With all their graceful colonnades. 
And crystal baths and myrtle shades, 
Along the blue Hesperian deep. 
Whose glassy waves in sunshine sleep; 
Beneath your olive and your vine 
Far other inmates now recline, 
And the tall plane, whose roots ye fed 
With rich hbations duly shed,(3) 
O'er guests, unlike your vanished friends. 
Its bowery canopy extends : 
For them the southern heaven is glowing, 
The bright Falernian nectar flowing ; 
For them the marble halls unfold, 
Where nobler beings dwelt of old. 
Whose children for barbarian lords 
Touch the sweet lyre's resounding chords. 
Or wreaths of Psestan roses twine. 
To crown the sons of Elbe and Rhine. 
Yet though luxurious they repose 
Beneath Corinthian porticoes. 
While round them into being start 
The marvels of triumphant art : 



Oh! not for them hath Genius given 
To Parian stone the fire of heaven. 
Enshrining in the forms he wrought 
A bright eternity of thought. 
In vain the natives of the skies 
In breathing marble round them rise, 
And sculptured nymphs, of fount or glade, 
People the dark-green laurel shade ; 
Cold are the conqueror's heart and eye 
To visions of divinity ; 
And rude his hand which dares deface 
The models of immortal grace. 

Arouse ye from your soft delights ! 
Chieftains! the war-note's call invites; 
And other lands must yet be won, 
And other deeds of havoc done. 
Warriors ! your flowery bondage breali, 
Sons of the stormy north, awake ! 
The barks are launching from the steep, 
Soon shall the Isle of Ceres weep,(4) 
And Afric's burning winds afar 
Wafl; the shrill sounds of Alaric's war. 
Where shall his race of victory close 1 
When shall the ravaged earth repose 1 
But hark ! what wildly mingling cries 
From Scythia's camp tumultuous rise? 
Why swells dread Alaric's name on air? 
A sterner conqueror hath been there ! 
A conqueror^yet his paths are peace, 
He comes to bring the world's release ; 
He of the sword that knows no sheath, 
Th' avenger, the deliverer — Death ! 

Is then that daring spirit fled? 
Doth Alaric slumber with the dead ? 
Tamed are the warriors pride and strength, 
And he and earth are calm at length. 
The land where heaven unclouded shines, 
Where sleep the sunbeams on the vines ; 
The land by conquest made his own, 

Can yield him now — a grave alone. 

But his — her lord from Alp to sea — 

No common sepulchre shall be ! 

Oh, make his tomb where mortal eye 

Its buried wealth may ne'er descry ! . 

Where mortal foot may never tread 

Above a victor-monarch's bed. 

Let not his royal dust be hid 

'Neath star-aspiring pyramid ; 

Nor bid the gathered mound arise, 

To bear his memory to the skies. 

Years roll away — oblivion claims 

Her triumph o'er heroic names ; 

And hands profane disturb the clay 

That once was fired with glory's ray! 

And Avarice, from their secret gloom, 

Drags e'en the treasures of the tomb. 

But thou, O leader of the free ! 

That general doom awaits not thee I 



TALES AND HISTORIC SCENES. 



139 



Thou, where no step may e'er intrude, 
Shalt rest in regal solitude, 
Till, bursting on thy sleep profound, 
The Awakener's final trumpet sound. 
Turn ye the waters from their course, 
Bid Nature yield to human force, 
And hollow in the torrent's bed, 
A chamber for the mighty dead. 
The work is done — the captive's hand 
Hath well obeyed his lord's command. 
Within that royal tomb are cast 
The richest trophies of the past, 
The wealth of many a stately dome, 
The gold and gems of plundered Rome : 
And when the midnight stars are beaming, 
And ocean-waves in stillness gleaming, 
Stern in their grief, his warriors bear 
The Chastener of the Nations there ; 
To rest at length from victory's toil. 
Alone, with all an empire's spoil ! 

Then the freed current's rushing wave 
Rolls o'er the secret of the grave ; 
Then streams the martyred captives' blood 
To crimson that sepulchral flood. 
Whose conscious tide alone shall keep 
The mystery in its bosom deep. 
Time hath past on since then — and swept 
From earth the urns where heroes slept ; 
Temples of gods, and domes of kings. 
Are mouWering with forgotten things ; 
Yet shall nonages e'er molest 
The viewless home of Alaric's rest; 
Still rolls, like them, th' unfailing river. 
The guardians of his dust for ever. 



NOTES 

Note 1, page 137, col. 2. 
Spared not the living for the dead. 
After the taking of Athens by Sylla, " though 
such numbers were put to the sword, there were 
as many who laid violent hand upon themselves in 
^rief for their sinking country. What reduced the 
best men among them to this despair of finding 
any mercy or moderate terms for Athens, was the 
well-known cruelty of Sylla : yet partly by the in- 
tercession of Midias and Calliphon, and the exiles 
who threw themselves at his feet, partly by the 
entreaties of the senators who attended him in that 
expedition, and being himself satiated with blood 
besides, he was at last prevailed upon to stop his 
hand, and in complimentto the ancient Athenians, 
he said, ' he forgave the many for the sake of the 
few, the living/or the dead." — Plutarch. 

Note 2, page 138, col. 1. 
That fearful sound, at midnight deep. 
"At the hour of midnight, the Salarian gate was 



silently opened, and the inhabitants were awaken- 
ed by the tremendous sound of the Gothic trumpet. 
Eleven hundred and sixty-three years after the 
foundation of Rome, the imperial city, which had 
subdued and civilized so considerable a portion of 
mankind, was delivered to the licentious fury of 
the tribes of Germany and Scythia." — Decline and 
Fall of the Roman Empire, vol. v. p. 311. 

Note 3, page 138, col. 1. 

With rich libations duly shed. 
The plane-tree was much cultivated among the 
Romans, on account of its extraordinary shade ; 
and they used to nourish it with wine instead of 
water, believing (as Sir W. Temple observes) that 
" this tree loved that liquor as well as those who 
used to drink under its shade."- See the notes to 
Melmoth's Pliny. 

Note 4, page 138, col. 2. 
Soon shall the isle of Ceres weep. 
Sicily was anciently considered as the favoured 
and peculiar dominion of Ceres. 



THE WIFE OF ASDRUBAL. 



" This governor, wh(4 had braved death when 
it was at a distance, and protested that the sun 
should never see him survive Carthage, this fierce 
Asdrubal, was so mean-spirited, as to come alone, 
and privately throw himself at the conqueror's feet. 
The general, pleased to see his proud rival humbled, 
granted his life, and kept him to grace his triumph. 
The Carthaginians in the citadel no sooner under- 
stood that their commander had abandoned the 
place, than they threw open the gates, and put the 
proconsul in possession of Byrsa. The Romans 
had now no enemy to contend with but the nine 
hundred deserters, who, being reduced to despair, 
retired into the temple of Esculapius, which was a 
second citadel within the first: there the proconsul 
attacked them; and these unhappy wretches, find- 
ing there was no way to escape, set fire to the tem- 
ple. As the flames spread, they retreated from one 
part to another, till they got to the roof of the 
building : there Asdrubal's wife appeared in her 
best apparel, as if the day of her death had been a 
day of triumph ; and after having uttered the most 
bitter imprecations against her husband, whom she 
saw standing below with Emilianus, — ' Ba.se cow- 
ard!' said she, ' the mean things thou hast done to 
save thy life shall not avail thee ; thou shalt die 
this instant, at least in thy two children.' Having 
thus spoken, she drew out a dagger, stabbed them 
both, and while they were yet struggling for life, 



140 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



threw them from the top of the temple, and leaped 
down after them into the flames." — Ancient: Uni- 
versal History. 



The sun sets brightly — ^but a ruddier glow 
O'er Afric's heaven the flames of Carthage throw ; 
Her walls have sunk, and pyramids of fire 
In lurid splendor from her domes aspire; 
Swayed by the wind, they wave — while glares the 

sky 
As when the desert's red Simoom is nigh : 
The sculptured altar, and the pillared hall, 
Shine out in dreadful brightness ere they fall; 
Far o'er the seas the light of ruin streams, 
Rock, wave, and isle are crimsoned by its beams; 
While captive thousands, bound in Roman chains, 
Gaze in mute horror on their burning fanes ; 
And shouts of triumph, echoing far around. 
Swell from the victor's tents with ivy crowned.* 
But mark ! from yon fair temple's loftiest height 
What towering form bursts wildly on the sight, 
All regal in magnificent attire. 
And sternly beauteous in terrific ire "? 
She might be deemed a Pythia in the hour 
Of dread communion and delirious power ; 
A being more than earthly, in whose eye 
There dwells a strange and fierce ascendancy. • 
The flames are gathering round — intensely bright, 
Full on her features glares their meteor-light. 
But a wild courage sits triumphant there. 
The stormy grandeur of a proud despair ; 
A daring spirit, in its woes elate. 
Mightier than death, untameable by fate. 
The dark profusion of her locks unbound, 
Waves like a warrior's floating plumage round ; 
Flushed is her cheek, inspired her haughty mien, 
She seems th' avenging goddess of the scene. 

Are those her infants, that with suppliant cry 
Cling round her, shrinking as the flame draws 

nigh, 
Clasp with their feeble hands her gorgeous vest. 
And fain would rush for shelter to her breast 1 
Is that a mother's glance, where stern disdain, 
And passion awfully vindictive, reign 1 

Fixed is her eye on Asdrubal, who stands, 
Ignobly safe, amidst the conquering bands ; 
On him, who left her to that burning tomb, 
Alone to share her children's martyrdom; 
Who when his country perished, fled the strife. 
And knelt to win the worthless boon of life. 
" Live, traitor, live!" she cries, " since dear to thee. 
E'en in thy fetters can existence be ! 
Scorned and dishonored live! — with blasted name. 
The Roman's triumph not to grace, but shame. 
O slave in spirit! bitter be thy chain 
With tenfold anguish to avenge my pain ! 



Still may the manes of thy children rise 

To chase caJm slumber from thy wearied eyes; 

Still may their voices on the haunted air 

In fearful whispers tell thee to despair. 

Till vain remorse thy withered heart consume, 

Scourged by relentless shadows of the tomb ! 

E'en now my sons shall die — and thou, their sire, 

In bondage safe, shalt yet in them expire. 

Think'st thou I love them not? — 'Twas thine to 

'Tis mine with these to suffer and to die. 
Behold their fate ! — the arms that can hot save 
Have been their cradle, and shall be their grave." 

Bright in her hand the lifted dagger gleams, 
Swift from her children's hearts the life-blood 

streams ; 
With frantic laugh she clasps them to the breast 
Whose woes and passions soon shall be at rest ; 
Lifts one appealing, frenzied glance on high, 
Then deep 'midst rolling flames is lost to mortal 

eye. 



HELIODORUS IN THE TEMPLE. 



' It was a Roman custona to adoru the tents of victors with 



ivy. 



From Maccabees, book 2, chapter iii. 21. " Then 
it would have pitied a man to see the falling down 
of the multitude of all sorts, and the fear of the 
high priest, being in such an agony. — 33- They 
then called upon the Almighty Loi^l to keep the 
things committed of trust safe and sure, for those 
that had committed them. — 23. Nevertheless 
Heliodorus executed that which was decreed. — 
24. Now as he was there present himself with his 
guard about the treasury, the Lord of Spirits, and 
the Prince of all Power, caiised a great apparition, 
so that all that presumed to come in with him 
were astonished at the power of God, and fainted, 
and were sore afraid.— 25. For there appeared 
unto them a horse with a terrible rider upon him, 
and adorned with a very fair covering, and he ran 
fiercely, and smote at Heliodorus with his fore- 
feet, and it seemed that he that sat upon the horse 
had complete harness of gold. — 26. Moreover, two 
other young men appeared before him, notable in 
strength, excellent in beauty, and comely in appa- 
rel, who stood by him on either side, and scourged 
him continually, and gave him many sore stripes. 
— 27. And Heliodorus fell suddenly to the ground, 
and was compassed with great darkness ; but they 
that were with him took him up and put him 
into a fitter.— 28. Thus him that lately came with 
great train, and with all his guard into the said 
treasury, they carried out, being unable to help 
himself with his weapons, and manifestly they 
acknowledged the power of God.— 29. For he by 
the hand of God was cast down, and lay speech- 
less, without all hope of life." 



TALES AND HISTORIC SCENES. 



141 



A socND of WO in Salem! — mournful cries 

Rose from her dwellings— youthful cheeks were 
pale, ' 

Tears flowing fast from dim and aged eyes, 

And voices mingling in tumultuous wail ; 
Hands raised to heaven in agony of prayer, 
And powerless wrath, and terror, and despair. 
Thy daughters, Judah ! weeping, laid aside 

The regal splendour of their fair array, 
With the rude sackcloth girt their beauty's pride, , 

And thronged the streets in hurrying, wild dis- 
may; 
"While knelt thy priests before his awful shrine. 
Who made, of old, renown and empire thine. 

But on the spoiler moves — the temple's gate. 

The bright, the beautiful, his guards unfold, 
And all the scene reveals its solemn state. 

Its courts and pillars, rich with sculptured gold ; 
And man, with eye unhallowed, views th' abode, 
The severed spot, the dwelling-place of God. 
Where art thou, IMighty Presence ! that of yore 

Wert wont between the cherubim to rest, 
Veiled in a cloud of glory, shadowing o'er 

Thy sanctuary the chosen and the blest : 
Thou ! that didst make fair Sions ark thy throne, 
And call the oracle's recess thine own ! 

Angel of God ! that through th' Assyrian host, 
Clothed with the darkness of the midniuht hour. 

To tame the proud, to hush th' invader's boast. 
Didst pass triumphant in avenging power. 

Till burst the day-spring on the silent scene. 

And death alone revealed where thou hadst been. 

Wilt thou not wake. O Chastener! inth}' might, 
To guard thine ancient and majestic hill. 

Where oft from heaven the full Shechinah's light 
Hath streamed the house of hohncss to fill "? 

Oh! yet once more defend thy loved domaiii, 

Eternal one ! DeUverer ! rise again ! 

Fearless of thee, the plunderer, undismayed, 
Hastes on, the sacred chambers to explore 

Where the bright treasures of the fane are laid. 
The orphan's portion, and the widow's store ; 

What recks his heart though age unsuccoured die, 

And want consume the cheek of infancy 1 

Away, intruders ! — hark ! a mighty sound ! 

Behold a burst of light ! — away, away ! 
A fearful glory fills the temple round. 

A vision bright in terrible array ! 
And lo ! a steed of no terrestrial frame. 
His path a whirlwind, and his breath a flame ! 

His neck is clothed with thunder* — and his mane 
Seems waving fire — the kindUng of his eve 



• " Hast thou given the horse strength 1 Hast thou clothed 
his neck with thunder?" — Job, xxxis. 19. 
19 



Is a meteor — ardent with disdain 

His glance — his gesture, fierce in majesty ! 
Instinct with Ught he seems, and formed to bear 
Some dread archangel through the fields of air. 

But who is he, in panoply of gold. 

Throned on that burning charger 7 — bright his 
form, 
Yet in its brightness awful to behold, 

And girt with all the terrors of the storm! 
Lightning is on his helmet's crest — and fear 
Shrinks from the splendour of his brow severe. 

And by liis side two radiant warriors stand 
All armed; and kingly in commanding crrace 

Oh ! more than kingly, godlike I — sternly grand 
Their port indignant, and each dazzling face 

Beams with the beauty to immortals given 

Magnificent in all the wrath of heaven. 

Then sinks each gazer's heart — each knee is bowed 
In trembling awe — but, as to fields of fight, 

Th' unearthly war-steed, rushing through the 
crowd. 
Bursts on their leader in terrific might; 

And the stern angels of that dread abode 

Pursue its plunderer with the scourge of God. 

Darkness— thick darkness ! — low on earth he lies, 
Rash Heliodorus — motionless and pale 

Bloodless his cheek, and o'er his shrouded eyes 
jMists, as of death, suspend their shadowy veil; 

And thus th' oppressor, by his fear-struck train, 

Is borne from that inviolable fane. 

The light returns — the warriors of the sky 

Have passed, with all their dreadful pomp, away; 

Then wakes the timbrel, swells the song on high 
Triumphant, as in Judah's elder day; 

Rejoice, O city of the sacred hill' 

Salem, exult! thy God is with thee still. 



NIGHT-SCENE IN GENOA. 



FROM SISMONDl's '•' REPUBLiatJES ITALIENNES." 

" En meme temps que les Genois poursuivoient 
avec ardeur la guerre contre Pise, ils etoient de- 
chires euxmemes par une discorde civile. Les 
consuls de I'annee 1169, pour etabUr la paix dans 
leur patrie, au miheu des factions sourdes a leur 
voix et plus puissantes qu' eux, furent obliores 
d'ourdir en quelque sorte une conspiration, lis 
commencerent par s'assurer secretement des dis- 
positions pacifiques de plusieurs des citoyens, qui 
cependant etoient entraines dans les emeutes paj 
leur parente avec les chefs de faction ; puis, se con- 
certant avec le venerable vieiUard, Hugues, leur 
archeveque, ils firent, long-temps avant le lever du 



142 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



soleil, appeler au son des cloches les citoyens au 
parlement; ils se flattoient que la surprise et 
I'alarme de cette convocation inattendue, au milieu 
de I'obscurite de la nuit, rendroit Tassemblee et 
plus complete et plus docile. Les citoyens, en 
accourant au parlement general, virent, au milieu 
de la place publique, le vieil archeveque, entoure 
de son clerge en habit de ceremonies, et portant 
des torches allumees, tandis que les reliques de 
Saint Jean Baptiste, le protecteur de Genes, etoi- 
ent exposees devant lui, et que les citoyens les 
plus respectables portoient a leurs mains des croix 
suppliantes. Des que I'assemblee fut formee, le 
vieillard se leva, et de sa voix cassee il conjura les 
chefs de parti, au nom du Dieu de paix, au nom 
du salut de leurs ames, au nom de leur patrie et de 
la liberie, dont leurs discordes entraineroient la 
mine, de jurer sur I'evangile I'oubh de leurs que- 
relles, et la paix a venir. 

" Les herauts, des qu'il eut fini de parler, s'avan- 
c&rent aussitot vers Roland Avogado, le chef de 
I'une des factions, qui etoit present a I'assemblee, 
et, secondes par les acclamations de tout le peuple, 
et par les prieres de ses parens eux-memes, ils le 
sommerent de se conformer au voeu des consuls et 
de la nation. 

"Roland, a leur approche, dechira ses habits, 
et, s'asseyant par terre en versant des larmes, il 
appela a haute voix les morts qu'il avoit jure de 
venger, et qui ne lui permettoient pas de pardon- 
ner leurs vieilles offenses. Comme on ne pouvoit 
le determiner e s'avancer, les consuls eux-memes, 
I'archeveque et le clerge s'approcherent de lui, et, 
renouvelant leurs prieres, ils I'entrainerent enlin, 
et lui firent jurer sur I'evangile I'oubli de ses ini- 
mities passees. 

" Les chefs du parti contraire, Foulques de Cas- 
tro, et Ingo de Volta, n'etoient pas presens a I'as- 
semblee, mais le peuple et le clerge se porterent en 
foule a leurs maisons; ils les trouverent deja 
ebranles par ce qu'ils venoient d'apprendre, et, 
profitant de leur emotion, ils leur firent jurer une 
reconcihation sincere, et donner le baiser de paix 
aux chefs de la faction oppesee. Alorsles cloches 
de la ville sonnerent en temoignage d'allegresse, 
et I'archeveque de retour sur la place publique 
entonna un Te Deum avec toute le peuple, en 
honneur du Dieu de paix qui avoit sauve leur 
patrie." — Histoire des Republiques lialiennes, vol. 
ii. p. 149—150. 

In Genoa, when the sunset gave 
Its last vparm purple to the wave. 
No sound of vpar, no voice of fear, 
Was heard, announcing danger near: 
Though deadliest foes were there, whose hate 
But slumbered till its hour of fate. 
Yet calmly, at the twilight's close. 
Sunk the wide city to repose. 



But when deep midnight reigned around, 
All sudden woke the alarm-bell's sound, 
Full swelling, while the hollow breeze 
Bore its dread summons o'er the seas. 
Then, Genoa, from their slumber started 
Thy sons, the free, the fearless-hearted ; 
Then mingled with th' awakening peal 
Voices, and steps, and clash of steel. 
" Arm, warriors, arm! for danger calls, 
Arise to guard your native walls!'' 
With breathless haste the gathering throng 
Hurry the echoing streets along ; 
Through darkness rushing to the scene' 
Where their bold councils still convene. 
— But there a blaze of torches bright 
Pours its red radiance on the night. 
O'er fane, and dome, and column playing, 
With every fitful night-wind swaying, 
Now floating o'er each tall arcade. 
Around the pillared scene displayed, 
In light relieved by depth of shade ; 
And now, with ruddy meteor-glare, 
Full streaming on the silvery hair 
And the bright cross of him who stands. 
Rearing that sign with suppliant hands. 
Girt with his consecrated train. 
The hallowed servants of the fane. 
Of fife's past woes the fading trace 
Hath given that aged patriarch's face 
Expression holy, deep, resigned. 
The calm sublimity of mind. 
Years o'er his snowy head had passed, 
And left him of his race the last ; 
Alone on earth — yet still his mien 
Is bright with majesty serene ; 
And those high hopes, whose guiding-star 
Shines from th' eternal worlds afar. 
Have with that light illumed his eye, 
Whose fount is immortality. 
And o'er his features poured a ray 
Of glory, not to pass away. 
He seems a being who hath known 
Communion v/ith his God alone. 
On earth by nought but pity's tie 
Detained a moment from on high I 
One to sublimer worlds allied. 
One, from all passion purified. 
E'en now half mingled with the sky, 
And all prepared — oh ! not to die- 
But lil?e the prophet, to aspire. 
In heaven's triumphal car of fire. 
He speaks — and from the throngs around 
Is heard not e'en a whispered sound ; 
Awe-struck each heart, and fixed each glance, 
They stand as in a spell bound-trance : 
He speaks — oh ! who can hear nor own 
The might of each prevailing tone 1 

" Chieftains and warriors! ye, so long 
Aroused to strife by mutual wrong, 



TALES AND HISTORIC SCENES. 



143 



Whose fierce and far-transmitted hate 
Hath made your country desolate ; 
Now by the love ye bear her name, 
By that pure spark of holy flame 
On freedom's altar brightly burning, 
But, once extinguished — ne'er returning; 
By all your hopes of bliss to come 
When burst the bondage of the tomb ; 
By him, the God who bade us live 
To aid each other and forgive ; 
I call upon ye to resign 
Your discords at your country's shrine, 
Each ancient feud in peace atone, 
Wield your keen swords for her alone. 
And swear upon the cross to cast, 
Obhvion's mantle o'er the past." 

No voice replies — the holy bands 
Advance to where yon chieftain stands. 
With folded arms and brow of gloom 
O'ershadowed by his floating plume 
To him they lift the cross — in vain 
He turns — oh ! say not with disdain. 
But with a mien of haughty grief. 
That seeks not e'en from heaven relief: 
He rends his robes — he sternly speaks — 
Yet tears are on the warrior's cheeks. 

"Father! not thus the wounds may close 
Inflicted by eternal foes. 
Deem'st thou thy mandate can efface 
The dread volcana's burning trace? 
Or bid the earthquake's ravaged scene 
Be, smiling, as it once hath been 1 
No ! — for the deeds the sword hath done 
Forgiveness is not lightly won ; 
The words, by hatred spoke, may not 
Be, as a summer breeze, forgot ! 
'Tis vain — we deem the war-feud's rage 
A portion of our heritage. 
Leaders, now slumbering with their fame. 
Bequeathed us that undying flame; 
Hearts that have long been still and cold 
Yet rule us from their silent mould. 
And voices, heard on earth no more, 
Speak to our spirits as of yore. 
Talk not of mercy — blood alone 
The stain of bloodshed may atone ; 
Nought else can pay that mighty debt, 
The dead forbid us to forget." 

He pauses — from the patriarch's brow 
There beams more lofty grandeur now; 
His reverend form, his aged hand, 
Assume a gesture of command, 
His voice is awful, and his eye 
Filled with prophetic majesty. 

"The dead ! — and deem'st thou they retain 
Aught of terrestrial passion's stain? 
Of guilt incurred in days gone by, 
Aught of the fearful penalty? 



And say'st thou, mortal ! blood alone 

For deeds of slaughter may atone? 

There hath been blood — by HIM 'twas shed 

To expiate every crime who bled ; 

Th' absolving God who died to save, 

And rose in victory from the grave ! 

And by that stainless offering given 

Alike on all on earth to heaven; 

By that inevitable hour 

When death shall vanquish pride and power. 

And each departing passion's force 

Concentrate all in late remorse ; 

And by tiie day when doom shall be 

Passed on earth's millions, and on thee, 

The doom that shall not be repealed. 

Once uttered, and for ever sealed; 

I summon thee, O child of clay ! 

To cast thy darker thoughts away 

And meet thy foes in peace and love, 

As thou wouldst join tiie blest above." 

Still as he speaks unwonted feeling 
Is o'er the chieftain's bosom stealing ; 
Oh ! not in vain the pleading cries 
Of anxious thousands round him rise, 
He yields — devotion's mingled sense 
Of faith, and fear, and penitence, 
Pervading all his soul, he bows 
To offer on the cross his vows. 
And that best incense to the skies. 
Each evil passion's- sacrifice. 

Then tears from warriors' eyes were flowing. 
High hearts with soft emotions glowing, 
Stern foes as long-loved brothers greeting, 
And ardent throngs in transport meeting. 
And eager footsteps forward pressing 
And accents loud in joyous blessing ; 
And when their first wild tumults cease, 
A thousand voices echo " Peace !" 

Twilight's dim mist hath rolled away 
And the rich Orient burns with day; 
Then, as to greet the sunbeam's birth, 
Rises the choral hymn of earth; 
Th' exulting strain through Genoa swelling, 
Of peace and holy rapture telling. 
Far float the sounds o'er vale and steep, 
The seaman hears them on the deep, 
So mellowed by the gale, they seem 
As the wild music of a dream; 
But not on mortal ear alone 
Peals the triumphant anthem's tone, 
For beings of a purer sphere 
Bend with celestial joy, to hear 



THE TROUBADOUR AND RICHARD 
CCEUR DE LION. 



" Not only the place of Richard's confinement" 
(when thrown into prison by the Duke of Austria,) 



144 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



" if we believe the literary history of the times, but 
even the circumstance of his captivity, was care- 
fully concealed by his vindictive enemies: and both 
might have remained unknown but for the grate- 
ful attachment of a Provenfal bard, or minstrel, 
named Blondel, who had shared that prince's 
friendship and tasted his bounty. Having travel- 
led over all the European continent to learn the 
destiny of his beloved patron, Blondel accidentally 
got intelligence of a certain castle in Germany, 
where a prisoner of distinction was confined, and 
guarded with great vigilance. Persuaded by a se- 
cret impulse that this prisoner was the King of 
England, the minstrel repaired to the place ; but 
the gates of the castle were shut against him, and 
he could obtain no information relative to the name 
or quality of the unhappy person it secured. In 
this extremity, he bethought himself of an expe- 
dient for making the desired discovery. He chant- 
ed, with a loud voice, some verses of a song which 
had been composed partly by himself, partly by 
Richard; and, to his unspeakable joy, on making 
a pause, he heard it re-echoed, and continued by 
the royal captive." — (Hisi. Troubadours.) To 
this discovery the English monarch is said to have 
eventually owed his release." — See Russell's Mo- 
dern Europe, vol. i. p. 369. 



The Troubadour o'er many a plain 
Hath roamed unwearied, but in vain. 
O'er many a rugged mountain-scene, 
And forest-wild, his track hath been ; 
Beneath Calabria's glowing sky 
He hath sung the songs of chivalry, 
His voice hath swelled on the Alpine breeze, 
And rung through the snowy Pyrenees ; 
From Ebro's banks to Danube's wave, 
He hath sought his prince, the loved, the brave, 
And yet, if still on earth thou art, 
O monarch of the lion-heart ! 
The faithful spirit, which distress 
But heightens to devotedness. 
By toil and trial vanquished not, 
Shall guide thy minstrel to the spot. 

He hath reached a mountain hung with vine, 
And woods that wave o'er the lovely Rhine ; 
The feudal towers that crest its height 
Frown in unconquerable might ; 
Dark is their aspect of sullen state. 
No helmet hangs o'er the massy gate(l) 
To bid the wearied pilgrim rest. 
At the chieftain's board a welcome guest ; 
Vairdy rich evening's parting smile 
Would chase the gloom of the haughty pile, 
That 'midst bright sunshine lowers on hia-h. 
Like a thunder-cloud in a summer-sky. 

Not these the halls where a child of sonor 
Awliile may speed the hours along : 



Their echoes should repeat alone 

The tyrant's mandate, the prisoner's moan, 

Or the wild huntsman's bugle-blast. 

When his phantom-train are hurrying past.(3) 

The weary minstrel paused — his eye 

Roved o'er the scene despondingly : 

Within the lengthening shadow, cast 

By the fortress-towers and ramparts vast, 

Lingering he gazed — the rocks around 

Sublime in savage grandeur frowned ; 

Proud guardians of the regal flood. 

In giant strength the mountains stood ; 

By torrents cleft, by tempests riven. 

Yet mingling with the calm blue heaven. 

Their peaks were bright with a sunny glow, 

But the Rhine all shadowy rolled below ; 

In purple tints the vineyards smiled. 

But the woods beyond waved dark and wild ; 

Nor pastoi'al pipe, nor convent's bell. 

Was heard on the sighing breeze to swell, 

But all was lonely, silent, rude 

A stern, yet glorious solitude. 

But hark ! that solemn stillness brealdng, 
The Troubadour's wild song is waking, 
Full oft that song, in days gone by, 
Hath cheered the sons of chivalry ; 
It hath swelled o'er Judah's mountains lone, 
Hermon ! thy echoes have learned its tone ; 
On the Great Plain(3) its notes have rung. 
The leagued Crusader's tents among ; 
'T was loved by the Lion- heart, who won 
The palm in the field of Ascalon ; 
And now afar o'er the rocks of Rhine 
Peals the bold strain of Palestine. 

THE troubadour's SONG. 

" Thine hour is come, and the stake is set," 
The soldan cried to the captive knight, 

" And the sons of the Prophet in throngs are met 
To gaze on the fearful sight. 

" But be our faith by thy lips professed, 

The faith of Mecca's shrine. 
Cast down the red-cross that marks thy vest, 

And life shall yet be thine." 

" I have seen the flow of my bosom's blood. 

And gazed with undaunted eye ; 
I have borne the bright cross through fire and flood, 

And thinkest thou I fear to die 1 

" I have stood where thousands by Salem's towers, 

Have fallen for the name divine ; 
And the faith that cheered their closing hours 

Shall be the light of mine." 

" Thus wilt thou die in the pride of health. 
And the glow of youth's fresh bloom 1 

Thou art offered life, and pomp, and wealth. 
Or torture and the tomb." 



TALES AND HISTORIC SCENES. 



145 



" I have been where the crown of thorns was twined 

For a d3-ing Saviour's brow ; 
He spurned the treasures that lure mankind, 

And I reject them now !" 

" Art thou the son of a noble line 

In a land that is fair and blest 1 
And doth not thy spirit, proud captive I pine, 

Again on its shores to rest "? 

" Thine own is the choice to hail once more 

The soil of thy fathers' birth, 
Or to sleep when thy lingering pangs are o'er, 

Forgotten in foreign earth." 

" Oh ! fair are the vine-clad hills that rise 

In the country of my love ; 
But yet, though cloudless my native skies. 

There's a brighter clinie above !" 

The bard hath paused — for another tone 
Blends witli the music of his own ; 
And his heart beats high with hope again, 
As a well-known voice prolongs the strain. 

" Are there none within thy father's hall, 

Far o'er the wide blue main, 
Young Christian ! left to deplore thy fall. 

With sorrow deep and vainT' 

" There are hearts that still, through all the past, 

Unchanging have loved me well ; 
There are eyes whose tears were streaming fast 

When I bade my home farewell. 

" Better they wept o'er the warrior's bier. 

Than th' apostate's living stain ; 
There's a land where those who loved, when here. 

Shall meet to love again." 

'T is he ! thy prince — long sought, long lost, 
The leader of the red-cross host ! 
'T is he ! — to none thy joy betray, 
Young Troubadour ! away, away ! 
Away to the island of the brave. 
The gem on the bosom of the wave, (4) 
Arouse the sons of the noble soil. 
To win their lion from the toil ; 
And free the wassail-cup shall flow. 
Bright in each hall the hearth shall glow ; 
The festal board shall be richly crowned. 
While knights and chieftains revel round, 
And a thousand harps with joy shall ring. 
When merry England hails her king. 



NOTES. 

Note 1, page 144, col. 1. 



No helmet hangs o'er the massy gate 
It was a custom in feudal times to hang out a 



invited to enter, and partake of hospitality. So in 
the romance of ' Pcrceforest,' " lis fasoinet mettre 
au plus hault de Icur hostel un kcaulme, en signe 
que tous les gentils homines ct genlilles femrnes 
entrassent hardimcnt en leur hostel comme en leur 
propre." 

Note 2, page 144, col. 2. 
Or the wild hunisman's bugle-blast, 
When his phantom-train are hurrying past. 

Popular tradition has made several mountains in 
Germany the haunt of the wild Jdger, or super- 
natural huntsman — the superstitious tales relating 
to the Unterburg are recorded in Eustace's Clas- 
sical Tour; and it is still believed in the romantic 
district of the Odenwald, that the knight of Roden- 
stein, issuing from his ruined castle, announces 
the approach of war by traversing the air with a 
noisy armament to the opposite castle of Schnel- 
lerts. — See the Manuel pour les Voi/ageura sur le 
Rhin, and Aiduinn on the Rhine. 

Note 3, page 144, col. 2. 
On the Great Plain its notes have rung. 
The plain of Esdraelon, called by way of emi- 
nence the " Great Plain ;" in Scripture, and else- 
where, the " field of Megiddo," the " Galilaen 
Plain." This plain, the most fertile of all the land 
of Canaan, has been the scene of many a memor- 
able contest in the first ages of Jewish history, as 
well as during tlie Roman empire, the Crusades, 
and even in later times. It has been a chosen 
place for encampment in every contest carried on 
in this country, from the days of Nabuchodonosor, 
king of tlie Assyrians, until the diastrous march 
of Bonaparte frojn Egypt into Syria. Warriors 
out of " every nation which is under heaven " have 
pitched their tents upon the Plain of Esdraelon, 
and have beheld the various banners of their na- 
tions wet with the dews of Hermon and Thabor. 
— Dr. Clarke's Travels. 

Note 4, page 145, col. 1. 

The gein on tlie bosom of the wave. 

" This precious stone set in the silver sea." 

S/iakspeare's Richard IlL 



THE DEATH OF CONRADIN. 



FROM SISMONDl'S "RKPUBHaUES ITALIENNES." 

" La dcfaite de Conradin ne dcToit mettre une 
terme ni a ses malheurs, ni aux vengeances du roi 
(Charles d'Anjou). L'amour du peuple pour I'he- 
ritier legitime du trone, avoit eclate d'une mani^re 
effrayante ; il pouvoit causer de nouvelles revolu- 



helmet on a castle, as a token that strangers were .tions, si Conradin demeuroit en vie; et Charie«, 



146 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



revetant sa defiance et sa cruaute des formes de la 
justice, resolut de faire perir sur Techafaud leder 
nier rejeton de la Maison de Souabe, I'unique es 
perance de son partL Un seul juge Proven9al et 
sujet de Charles, dont les historiena n'ont pas voulu 
conserver le nom, osa voter pour la mort, d'autres 
se renfermerent dans un timide et coupable silence; 
et Charles, sur I'autorite de ce seul juge, fit pro- 
nouncer, par Robert de Bari, protonotaire du roy- 
aume, la sentence de mort contre Conradin et tous 
ses campagnons. Cette sentence fut communi- 
quee a Conradin, comme il jouoit aux cchecs; on 
lui laissa peu de temps pour se preparer a son exe- 
cution, et le 26 d'Octobre, il fut conduit, avec tous 
ses amis, sur la Place du Marchc de Naples, le 
long du rivage de la mer. Charles etoit present, 
avec toute sa cour, et une foule immense entouroit 
le roi vainqueur et le Toi condamnc. Conradin 
etoit entre les mains des bourreaux ; il dctacha lui- 
inome son manteau, et s'etant mis a genoux pour 
prier, il se releva en s'ecriant: 'Oh, ma mere, 
quelle profonde douleur te causera la nouvelle qu'on 
va te porter de moi ! ' Puis il tourna les yeux sur 
la foule qui I'entouroit ; il vit les larmes, il enten- 
dit les sanglots de son peuple ; alors, detachant son 
gant, il jeta au milieu de ses sujets ce gage d'un 
combat de vengeance, et rendit sa tete au bourreau. 
Apres lui, sur le meme echafaud, Charles fit 
trancher le tote au Due d'Autriche, aux Comtcs 
Gualferano et Bartolommeo Lancia, et aux Comtes 
Gerard de Galvano Donoraticode Pise. Par une 
rafinement de cruaute, Charles voulut que le pre- 
mier, fils du second, precedat son pere, et mouriit 
entre ses bras. Les cadavres, d'apres ses ordres, 
furent exclus d'une terre sainte, et inhumes sans 
pompe sur le rivage de la mer. Charles II. cepen- 
dant fit dans la suite batir. sur le meme lieu, une 
eglise de CarmeUtes, comme pour appaiser ces om- 
bres irritees." 



No cloud to dim the splendour of the day 
Which breais o'er Naples and her lovely bay, 
And lights that brilliant sea and magic shore 
With every tint that charmed the great of yore ; 
Th' imperial ones of earth — who proudly bade 
Their marble domes e'en ocean's realm invade. 

That race is gone — but glorious Nature here 
Maintains unchanged her own sublime career. 
And tads these regions of the sun display 
Bright hues, surviving empires past away. 

The beam of heaven expands — its kindling smile 
Reveals each charm of many a fairy isle. 
Whose image floats in softer colouring drest, 
With all its rocks and vines on ocean's breast. 
Misenum's cape hath caught the vivid ray. 
On Roman streamers there no more to play ; 
Still as of old, unalterably bright, 
Lovely it sleeps on Posilippo's height, 



With all Italia's sunshine to illume 
The ilex canopy of Virgil's tomb. 
Campania's plains rejoice in light, and spread 
Their gay luxuriance o'er the mighty dead; 
Fair glittering to thine own transparent skies, 
Thy palaces, exulting Naples ! rise ; 
While, far on high, Vesuvius rears his peak. 
Furrowed and dark with many a lava streak. 

O ye bright shores of Circe and the Muse ! 
Rich with all nature's and all fiction's hues ; 
Who shall explore your regions, and declare 
The poet erred to paint Elysium there 1 
Call up his spirit, wanderer! bid him guide 
Thy steps, those siren-haunted seas beside, 
And all the scene a lovelier light shall wear, 
And spells more potent shall pervade the air. 
What though his dust be scattered, and his urn 
Long from its sanctuary of slumber torn,(l) 
Still dwell the beings of his verse around. 
Hovering in beauty o'er the enchanted ground ; 
Flis lays are murmured in each breeze that roves 
Soft o'er the sunny waves and orange-groves. 
His memory's charm is spread o'er shore and sea, 
The soul, the genius of Parthenope; 
Shedding o'er myrtle-shade and vine-clad hill 
The purple radiance of Elysium still. 

Yet that fair soil and calm resplendent sky 
Have witnessed many a dark reality. 
Oft o'er those bright blue seas the gale hath borne 
The sighs of exiles never to return. (2) 
There with the whisper of Campania's gale 
Hath mingled oft afl^ection's funeral wail, 
Mourning for buried heroes — while to her 
That glowing land was but their sepulchre.(3) 
And there of old, the dread, mysterious moan 
Swelled from strange voices of no mortal tonej 
And that wild trumpet, whose unearthly note 
Was heard at midnight o'er the hills to float 
Around the spot where Agrippina died. 
Denouncing vengeance on the matricide. (4) 

Past are those ages — yet another crime, 
Another wo must stain th' Elysian clime. 
There stands a scaffold on the sunny shore — ■ 
It must be crimsoned e'er the day is o'er ! 
There is a throne in regal pomp arrayed, — 
A scene of death from thence must be surveyed. 
Marked ye the rushing throngs 1 — each mien is 

pale. 

Each hurried glance reveals a fearful tale; 
But the deep workings of th' indignant breast, 
Wrath, hatred, pity, must be all suppressed : 
The burning tear awhile must check its course, 
Th' avenging thought concentrate all its force, 
For tyranny is near and will not brook 
Aught but submission in each guarded look. 

Girt with his fierce Provencals, and with mien 
Austere in triumph, gazing on the scene, (5) 
And in his eye a keen suspicious glance 
Of jealous pride and restless vigilancCj 



Tx^LES AND HISTORIC SCENES. 



147 



Behold the conqueror ! — vainly in his face, 
Of gentler feeling hope would seek a trace ; 
Cold, proud, severe, the spirit which hath lent 
Its haughty stamp to each dark lineament; 
And pleading mercy, in the sternness there, 
May read at once her sentence — to despair ! 

But thou, fair boy ! the beautiful, the brave, 
Thus passing from the dungeon to the grave, 
While all is yet around thee which can give 
A charm to earth, and make it bliss to live ; 
Thou, on whose form hath dwelt a mother's eye. 
Till the deep love that not with thee shall die 
Hath grown too full for utterance — can it be 1 
And is this pomp of death prepared ^or thee ? 
Young, royal Conradin ! who should'st have known 
Of life as yet the sunny smile alone ! 
Oh ! who can view thee, in the pride and bloom 
Of youth, arra3'ed thus richly for the tomb. 
Nor feel, deep-swelling in his inmost soul, 
Emotions tyranny may ne'er control! 
Bright victim! to ambition's altar led. 
Crowned with all flowers that heaven and earth 

can shed. 
Who, from tli' oppressor towering in his pride, 
May hope for mercy — if to thee denied "? 
There is dead silence in the breathless throng, — 
Dead silence all the peopled shore along, 
As on the captive moves — the only sound, 
To break that calm so fearfully profound, 
The low sweet murmur of the rippling vi'ave, 
Soft as it glides the smiling shore to lave ; 
While on that shore, his own fair heritage, 
The youthful martyr to a tyrant's rage 
Is passing to his fate — the eyes are dim 
Which gaze, through tears that dare not flow, on 

him : 
He mounts he scaffold — doth his footstep fail? 
Doth his Up quiver 1 doth his cheek turn pale'' 
Oh ! it may be forgiven him, if a thought 
CUng to that world, for him with beauty frauglit. 
To all the hopes that pronrised Glory's meed. 
And all th' affections that with him shall bleed ! 
If in his life's young day-spring, while the rose 
Of boyhood on his clieek yet freshly glows, 
One human fear convulse his parting breath. 
And shrink from all the bitterness of death ! 

But no! — the spirit of his royal race 
Sits brightly on his brow — that youthful face 
Beams with heroic beaut}' — and his eye 
Is eloquent with injured majesty. 
He kneels — but not to man — his heart shall own 
Such deep submission to his God alone ! 
And who can tell with what sustaining power 
That God may visit him in fate's dread hour 1 
How the still voice, wiiich answers every moan. 
May speak of hope, — when hope on earth is gone? 

That solemn pause is o'er — the youth hath given 
One glance of parting love to earth and heaven ; 



The sun rejoices in th' unclouded sky, 

Life all around him glows — and he must die ! 

Yet 'midst his people, undismayed, he throws 

The gage of vengeance for a thousand woes ; 

Vengeance, that like their own volcano's fire. 

May sleep suppressed awhile — but not expire 

One softer image rises o'er his breast. 

One fond regret, and all shall be at rest ! 

" Alas, for thee, my mother! who shall bear 

To thy sad heart the tidings of despair. 

When thy lost child is gone T — that thought can 

thrill 
His soul with pangs one moment more shall still. 
The lift;ed axe is glittering in the sun — 
It falls — the race of Conradin is run ! 
Yet from the blood which flows that shore to stain, 
A voice shall cry to heaven — and not in vain ! 
Gaze thou, triumphant from thy gorgeous throne, 
In proud supremacy of guilt alone, 
Charles of Anjou ! — but that dread voice shall be 
A fearful summoner e'en yet to thee ! 

The scene of death is closed — the throngs depart, 
A deep stern lesson graved on every heart. 
No pomp, no funeral rites, no streaming eyes, 
High-minded boy! may grace thine obsequies. 
vainly royal and beloved ! thy grave, 
Unsanctified, is bathed by ocean's wave. 
Marked by no stone, a rude, neglected spot, 
Unhonoured, unadorned — but unforgot: 
For thy deep wrongs in tameless hearts shall live. 
Now mutely sufiering — never to forgive ! 

The sunset fades from purple heavens away, — 
A bark hath anchored in th' unruffled bay; 
Thence on the beach descends a female form, (6) 
Her mien with hope and tearful transport warm ; 
But life hath left sad traces on her cheek. 
And her soft eyes a chastened heart bespeak, 
Inured to woes — yet what were all the past ! 
She sunk not feebly 'neath affliction's blast, 
While one bright hope remained — who now shall 

tell 
Th' uncrowned, the widowed, how her loved one 

fell? 
To clasp her child, to ransom and to save. 
The mother came — and she hath found his grave! 
And by that grave, transfixed in speechless grief. 
Whose death-like trance denies a tear's relief. 
Awhile she kneels — till roused at length to know, 
To fell the might, the fulness of her wo. 
On the still air a voice of anguish wild, 
A mother's crj', is heard — "My Conradin! my 

child !" 



NOTES. 

Note 1, page 146, col. 3. 
Long from its sanctuary of slumber torn. 
The urn, supposed to contain the ashes of Vir- 
gil, has long since been lost. 



143 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



Note 2, page 146, col. 2. 
Tlie sighs of exiles never to returji. 
Many Romans of exalted rank were formerly 
banished to some of the small islands in the Medi- 
terranean, on the coast of Italy. Jnlia, the daugh- 
ter of Augustus, was confined many years in the 
isle of Pandataria, and her daughter, Agrippina, 
the widow of Germanicus, afterwards died in exile 
on the same desolate spot. 

Note 3, page 146, col. 2. 
That glowing land was but their sepulchre. 
" Cluelques souvenirs du coeur, quelques noms 
de femmes, reclament aussi vos pleurs. C'est a 
Misene, dans le lieu meme ou nous sommes, que la 
veuve de Pompee,- Cornelie, conserva jusqu'a la 
mort son noble deuil ; Agrippine pleura long-temps 
Germanicus sur ces bords. Un jour, le meme as- 
sassin qui lui ravit son epoux la trouva digne de le 
suivre. L'ile de Nisida fut temoin des adieux dc 
Brutus et de Porcie." — Madame de Stael — Co- 



Note 4, page 146, col. 2. 
Denouncing vengeance on the matricide. 
The sight of that coast, and those shores where 
the crime had been perpetrated, filled Nero with 
continual horrors ; besides, there were some who 
imagined they heard horrid shrieks and cries from 
Agrippina's tomb, and a mournful sound of trum- 
pets from the neighbouring cliffs and hills. Nero, 
therefore, flying from such tragical scenes, with- 
drew to Naples. — See Ancient Universal History. 



Note 5, page 146, col. 2. 

Austere in ttiumph, gazing on the scene. 

"Ce Charles," dit Giovanni Villani, "fut sage 
et prudent dans les conseils, preux dans les armes, 
apre et fort redoute de tous les rois du monde, 
magnanime et de hautes pensees qui I'egaloient 
aux plus grandes entreprises; inebranlable dans 
I'adversite, ferme et fidcle dans toutes ses promes- 
ses, parlant peu et agissant beaucoup, ne riant 
prescjue jamais, decent comme un religieux, zele 
catholique, apre a reiidre justice, feroce dans ses 
regards. Sa taille etoit grande et nerveuse, sa 
couleur olivatre, son nez fOrt grand. II paroissoit 
jAus fait qu'aucun autre chevalier pour la majeste 
royale. II ne dormoit presque point. Jamais il ne 
prit de plaisir aux mimes, aux troubadours, et aux 
gens de cour." — Sismondi. Republiques Italiennes, 
vol. iii. 

Note 6, page 147, col. 2. 

Thence on the beach descends a female form. 

" The Carmine (at Naples) calls to mind the 
bloody catastrophe of those royal youths, Conradin 
and Frederick of Austria, butchered before its door. 
Whenever I traversed that square, my heart yearn- 
ed at the idea of their premature fate, and at the 
deep distress of Conradin's mother, who, landing 
on the beach with her son's ransom, found only a 
lifeless trunk to redeem from the fangs of his bar- 
barous conqueror." — Swinburne's Travels in the 
Tivo Sicilies. 



A POEM. 



"Leur raison, qu'ils prennent pour guide, ne 
presente a leur esprit que des conjectures et des 
embarras ; les absurdites ou ils tombent en niant 
la Religion deviennent plus insoutenables que les 
verites dont la hauteur les etonne ; et pour ne vou- 
loir pas croire des mysteres incomprehcnsibles, ils 
suivent I'une apres I'autre d'incomprehensibles 
crreurs." — Bossuet, Oraisons Funibres. 



When the young Eagle, with exulting eye. 
Has learned to dare the splendour of the sky, 
And leave the Alps beneath him iu liis course, 
To bathe his crest in morn's empyreal source, 
Will his free wing, from that majestic height, 
Descend to follow some wild meteor's light, 
Which far below, with evanescent fire, 
Shines to delude, and dazzles to expire 1 

No ! still through clouds he wins his upward way. 
And proudly claims his heritage of day ! 



— And shall the spirit on whose ardent gaze, 
The dayspring from on high hath poured its blaze, 
Turn from that pure effulgence, to the beam 
Of earth-born light, that sheds a treacherous gleam, 
Luring the wanderer from the star of faith, 
To the deep valley of the shades of death 1 
What bright exchange, what treasure shall be 

given, 
For the high birth-right of its hope in Heaven 1 
If lost the gem which empires could not buy, 
What yet remains 1 — a dark eternity ! 

Is earth still Eden ! — might a seraph guest, 
Still, 'midst its chosen bovvers delighted rest 1 
Is all so cloudless and so calm below, 
We seek no fairer scenes than life can show? 
That the cold Sceptic in his pride elate. 
Rejects the promise of a brighter state, 
And leaves the rock, no tempest shall displace. 
To rear his dwellmg on the quicksand's base 1 



THE SCEPTIC. 



149 



Votary of doubt ! then join the festal throng, 
Bask in the sunbeam, Hsten to the song, 
Spread the rich board, and fill the wine-cup high, 
And bind the wreath ere yet the roses die ! 
'Tis well, thine eye is yet undimined by time. 
And thy heart bounds, exulting in its prime ; 
Smile then unmoved at Wisdom's warning voice, 
And, in the glory of thy strength, rejoice ! 

But life hath sterner tasks ; e'en youth's brief hours 
Survive the beauty of their lovehest flowers; 
The founts of joy, where pilgrims rest from toil, 
Are few and distant on the desert soil ; 
The soul's pure flame the breathof storinsmust fan, 
And pain and sorrow claim their nursling — Man ! 
Earth's noblest sons the bitter cup have shared — 
Pround child of reason ! how art Ihou prepared 1 
When years, with silent might, thy frame have bow- 
ed, 
And o'er tliy spirit cast thy wintry clovid, 
Will Memory sooth thee on thy bed of pain, 
With the bright images of pleasure's train 1 
Yes ! as the sight of some far distant shore, 
Whose well-known scenes liis loot shall tread no 

more, 
Would cheer the seaman, by the eddying wave 
Drawn, vainly struggling, to th' unfatljomed grave! 
Shall Hope, the faithful cherub, hear thy call, 
She, who like heaven's own sunbeam, smiles for all 1 
Will sAe speak comfort? — Thou hast shorn her 

plume, 
That might have raised thee far above the tomb, 
And hushed the only voice whose angel tone 
Soothes when all melodies of joy are flown ! 

For she was born beyond the stars to soar, 
And kindling at the source of life, adore ; 
Thou couldst not, mortal ! rivet to the earth 
Her eye, whose beam is of celestial birth ; 
She dwells with those who leave her pinion free. 
And sheds the dews of heaven on all but thee. 

Yet few there are, so lonely, so bereft. 
But some true heart, that beats to theirs, is left. 
And, haply, one whose strong affection's power 
Unchanged may triumph through misfortune's 

hour, 
Still with fond care supports thy languid head. 
And keeps unwearied vigils by thy bed. 

But thou ! whose thoughts have no blest home 
above. 
Captive of earth! and canst thou dare to love? 
To nurse such feelings as delight to rest, 
Within that hallowed shrine — a parent's breast, 
To fix each hope, concentrate every tie. 
On one frail idol, — destined but to die. 
Yet mock the faith that points to worlds of light, 
Where severed souls, made perfect, re-unite 1 
Then tremble ! cling to every passing joy. 
Twined with the life a moment may destroy ! 
If there be sorrow in a parting tear. 
Still let "for ever" vibrate on thine ear ! 



If some bright hour on rapture's wing hath flown, 
Find more than anguish in the thought — 't is gone ! 
Go ! to a voice such magic influence give. 
Thou canst not lose its melody, and live ; 
And make an eye the lode-star of thy soul. 
And let a glance the springs of thought control ; 
Gaze on a mortal form with fond dehght, 
Till the fair vision mingles with thy sight ; 
There seek thy blessings, there repose thy trust, 
Lean on the willow, idolize the dust ! 
Then, wlien thy treasure best repays thy care. 
Think on that dread "for ever'' — and despair ! 

And oil ! no strange, unwonted storm there needs, 
To wreck at once thy fragile ark of reeds. 
Watch well its course — explore with anxious eye 
Each little cloud that floats along the sky — 
Is the blue canopy serenely fair ? 
Yet may the thunderbolt unseen be there. 
And the bark sink, when peace and sunshine sleep 
On the smootli bosom of the waveless deep I 
Yes ! ere a sound, a sign announce thy fate. 
May the blow faU which makes thee desolate ! 
Not always Heaven's destroying anjiel shrouds 
His awful form in tempests and in clouds ; 
He fills the summer-air with latent power, 
He hides his venom in the scented flower, 
He steals upon thee, in the Zephyr's breath, 
And festal garlands veil the shafts of death 1 

Where art thou then, who thus didst rashly cast 
Thine ail upon the mercy of the blast, 
And vainly hope the tree of life to find 
Rooted in sands that flit before the wind 1 
Is not that earth thy s[)irit loved so well. 
It wished not in a brighter sphere to dwell. 
Become a desert noio, a vale of gloom, 
O'ershadowed with the midnight of the tomb ? 
Where shalt thou turn? — it is not thine to raise, 
To yon pure heaven thy calm confiding gaze, 
No gleam reflected from that realm of rest 
Steals on the darkness of thy troubled breast, 
Not for thine eye shall faith divinely shed 
Her glory round the image of the dead ; 
And if, when slumber's lonely couch is prest, 
The form dejiarted be thy spirit's guest. 
It bears no light from purer worlds to this ; 
The future lends not e'en a dream of bliss. 

But who shall dnre the Gate of Life to close, 
Or say, thus far the stream of mercy flows 1 
That fount unsealed, whose boundless waves em- 
brace 
Each distant isle and visit every race. 
Pours from the Throne of God its current free, 
Nor yet denies th' immortal draught to thee. 
Oh ! while the doom impends, not yet decreed, 
While yet th' Atoner hath not ceased to plead, 
While still, suspended by a single hair. 
The sharp bright sword hangs quivering in the air, 
Bow down thy heart to Him, who will not break 
The bruised reed ; e'en yet, awake, awake ! 



150 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



Patient, because Eternal,(l) He may hear 
Tliy prayer of agony with pitying ear, 
And send his chastening spirit from above, 
O'er the deep chaos of thy soul to move. 

But seek thou mercy through His name alone, 
To whose unequalled sorrows none was shown. 
Through Him, who here in mortal garb abode, 
As man to suffer, and to heal as God .' 
And, born the sons of utmost time to bless. 
Endured all scorn, and aided all distress. 

Call thou on Him — for He, in human form. 
Hath walked the waves of Life, and stilled the 

storm. 
He, when her hour of lingering grace was past, 
O'er Salem wept, relenting to the last. 
Wept with such tears as Judah's monarch poured 
O'er his lost child, ungrateful, yet deplored ; 
And, offering guiltless blood that guilt might hve. 
Taught from his Cross the lesson — to forgive! 

Call thou on him — his prayer e'en then arose. 
Breathed in unpitied anguish, for his foes. 
And haste ! — ere bursts the lightning from on high. 
Fly to the City of thy Refuge, fly!(2) 
So shall th' Avenger turn his steps away. 
And sheath his falchion, baffled of its prey. 

Yet must long days roll on, ere peace shall brood. 
As the soft Halcyon, o'er thy heart subdued ; 
Ere yet the dove of Heaven descend, to shed 
Inspiring influence o'er thy fallen head. 
■ — He who hath pined in dungeons, 'midst the 

shade 
Of such deep night as man for man hath made. 
Through lingering years; if called at length to be 
Once more, by nature's boundless charter, free. 
Shrinks feebly back, the blaze of noon to shun. 
Fainting at day, and blasted by the sun! 
Thus, when the captive soul hath long remained 
In its own dread abyss of darkness chained, 
If the Deliverer, in his might, at last, 
Its fetters, born of earth, to earth should cast, 
The beam of truth o'erpowers its dazzled sight, 
Trembling it sinks, and finds no joy in light. 
But this will pass away — that spark of mind. 
Within thy frame unquenchably enshrined, 
Shall live to triump in its brightening ray. 
Born to be fostered with ethereal day. 
Then wilt thou bless the hour, when o'er thee 

passed. 
On wing of flame the purifying blast, 
And sorrow's voice, through paths before untrod, 
Like Sinai's trumpet, called thee to thy God! 

But hopest thou, in thy panoply of pride. 
Heaven's messenger, affliction, to deride? 
In thine own strength unaided to defy. 
With Stoic smile, the arrows of the sky"? 
Torn by the vulture, fettered to the rock. 
Still, Demigod ! the tempest wilt thou mock 1 
Alas ! the tower that crests the mountain brow 
A thousand years may awe the vale below, 



Yet not the less be shattered on its height. 

By one dread moment of the earthquake's might 

A thousand pangs thy bosom may have borne, 

In silent fortitude, or haughty scorn. 

Till comes the one, the master-anguish, sent 

To break the mighty heart that ne'er was bent. 

Oh ! what is nature's strength 1 the vacant eye, 
By mind deserted, hath a dread reply ! 
The wild delirious laughter of despair, 
The mirth of frenzy — seek an answer there! 
Turn not away, though pity's cheek grow pale, 
Close not thine ear against their awful tale. 
They tell thee, reason, wandering from the ray 
Of Faith, the blazing pillar of her way, 
In the mid-darkness of the stormy wave. 
Forsook the struggling soul she could not save ! 
Weep not, sad moralist ! o'er desert plains. 
Strewed with the wrecks of grandeur — moulder- 
ing fanes. 
Arches of triumph, long with weeds o'ergrown 
And regal cities, now the serpent's own : 
Earth has more awful ruins — one lost mind. 
Whose star is quenched, hath lessons for mankind, 
Of deeper import than each prostrate dome, 
Mingling its marble with the dust of Rome. 

But who with eye unshrinlung shall explore 
That waste, illumed by reason's beam no more 1 
Who pierce the deep, mysterious clouds that roll 
Around the shattered temple of the soul, 
Curtained with midnight 1 — low its columns lie, 
And dark the chambers of its imagery '?(3) 
Sunk are its idols now — and God alone 
May rear the fabric by their fall o'erthrown ! 
Yet from its inmost shrine, by storms laid bare, 
Is heard an oracle that cries — " Beware ! 
Child of the dust ! but ransomed of the skies ! 
One breath of Heaven — and thus thy glory dies! 
Hast, ere the hour of doom, draw nigh to Him 
Who dwells ahove between the cherubim !" 

Spirit dethroned ! and checked in mid career, 
Son of the morning ! exiled from the sphere. 
Tell us thy tale !— ^Perchance thy race was run 
With science, in the chariot of the sun ; 
Free as the winds the paths of space to sweep. 
Traverse the untrodden kingdoms of the deep, 
And search the laws that Nature's springs con- 
trol, 
There tracing all— save Him who guides the 
whole. 

Haply thine eye its ardent glance had cast 
Through the dim shades, the portals of the past ; 
By the bright lamp of thought thy care had fed 
From the far beacon-Ughts of ages fled, 
The depths of time exploring, to retrace 
The glorious march of many a vanished race. 

Or did thy power pervade the living lyre, 
TiU its deep chords became instinct with fire. 
Silenced all meaner notes, and swelled on high, 
Full and alone, their mighty harmony. 



THE SCEPTIC. 



151 



While woke each passion from its cell profound, 
And nations started at th' electric soundl 

Lord of th' Ascendant! what avails it now, 
Though briglit tlie laurels waved upon thy brow 1 
What, though thy name through distant empires 

heard, 
Bade the heart bound as doth a battle-word? 
Was it for this thy still unwearied eye 
Kept vigil with the watch-fires of the sky, 
To make the secrets of all ages thine. 
And commune with majestic thoughts that shine 
O'er Time's long shadowy pathway! — hath thy 

mind 
Severed its lone dominions from mankind, 
For this to woo their homage 1 — Thou hast sought 
All, save the wisdom with salvation fraught, 
Won every wreath — but that which will not die. 
Nor aught neglected — save eternity ! 

And did all tail thee, in the hour of wrath. 
When burst th' o'erwhclming vials on thy path"? 
Could not the voice of Fame inspire thee then, 
O spirit ! sceptred by the sons of men. 
With an Immortal's courage to sustain 
The transient agonies of earthly painl 

— One, one there was, all-powerful to have 
saved, 
When the loud fury of the billow raved ; 
But Him thou knewest not — and the light he lent 
Hath vanished from its ruined tenement. 
But left thee breathing, moving, lingering yet, 
A thing we shrink from — vainly to forget ; 
Lift the dread veil no further — hide, oh ! hide 
The bleeding form, the couch of suicide! 
The dagger grasped in death — the brow, the eye, 
Lifeless, yet stamped with rage and agony; 
The soul's dark traces left in many a line 
Graved on his mien, who died, — " and made no 

sign!" 
Approach not, gaze not — lest thy fevered brain 
Too deep that image of despair retain ; 
Angels of slumber! o'er the midnight hour, 
Let not such visions claim unhallowed power, 
Let the mind sink with terror, and above 
See but th' Avenger's arm, forgot th' Atoner's 

love! 
O Thou! th' unseen, th' all-seeing! — Tliou 
whose ways 
Mantled with darkness, mock all finite gaze. 
Before whose eyes the creatures of Thy hand. 
Seraph and man, alike in weakness stand, 
And countless ages, trampling into clay 
Earth's empires on their march, are but a day; 
Father of worlds unknown, unnumbered ! — Thou, 
With whom all time is one eternal now, 
Who know'st no past, no future — Thou whose 

breath 
Goes forth, and bears to myriads, life or death ! 
Look on us, guide us! — wanderers of a sea 
Wild and obscure, what are we, reft of Thee 1 



A thousand rocks, deep-hid, elude our sight, 
A star may set — and we are lost in night ; 
A breeze may waft us to the whirlpool's brink, 
A trcach'rous song allure us — and we sink! 

Oh ! by His love, who, veiling Godhead's light, 
To moments circumscribed the Infinite, 
And Heaven and Earth disdained not to ally 
By that dread union — Man vi'ith Deity; 
Immortal tears o'er mortal woes who shed, 
And, ere he raised them, wept above the dead ; 
Save, or we perish ! — let thy word control 
The earthquakes of that universe — the soul ; 
Pervade the depths of passion — speak once more 
The mighty mandate, guard of every shore, 
" PIcre shall thy waves be stayed" — in grief, in pain, 
The fearful poise of reason's sphere maintain. 
Thou, by whom suns are balanced! — thus secure 
In Thee shall Faith and Fortitude endure; 
Conscious of Thee, unfaltering shall the just 
Look upward still, in high and holy trust, 
And, by affliction guided to Thy shrine. 
The first, last thought of suffering hearts be Thine. 

And oh ! be near, when clothed with conquer- 
ing power, 
The King of Terrors claims his own dread hour; 
When on the edge of that unknown abyss. 
Which darkly parts us from the realm of bliss, 
Awe-struck alike the timid and the brave. 
Alike subdued the monarch and the slave, 
Must drink tliecup of trembling(4) — when we see 
Nought in the universe but death and Thee, 
Forsake us not ; — if still, when life was young, 
Faith to Thy bosom, as her home, hath sprung, 
If Hope's retreat hath been, through all the past, 
The shadow by the Rock of Ages cast, 
Father, forsake us not! — when tortures urge 
The shrinking soul to that mysterious verge, 
When from Thy justice to Thy love we fly, 
On Nature's conflict look with pitying eye. 
Bid the strong wind, the fire, the earthquake cease, 
Come in the still small voice, and whisper — 
peace !(5) 

For oh I 't is awful — He that hath beheld 
The parting spirit, by its fears repelled, 
Cling in weak terror to its earthly chain. 
And from the dizzy brink recoil, in vain; 
He that hath seen the last convulsive throe 
Dissolve the union formed and closed in wo. 
Well knows, that hour is awful. — In the pride 
Of youth and health, by sufferings yet untried, 
We talk of Death as something, which 't were 

sweet 
In Glory's arms exultingly to meet, 
A closing triumph, a majestic scene, 
Where gazing nations watch the hero's mien, 
As, undismayed amidst the tears of all. 
He folds his mantle, regally to fall ! 

Hush, fond enthusiast! — still, obscure, and lone, 
Yet not less terrible because unknown, 



152 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



Is the last hour of thousands — they retire 
From Hfe's thronged path, unnoticed to expire, 
As the light leaf, whose fall to ruin bears 
Some trembling insect's little world of cares, 
Descends in silence — while around waves on 
The mighty forest, reckless what is gone! 
Such is man's doom — and, ere an hour be flown, 
— Start not, thou trifler ! — such may be thine own 

But as life's current in its ebb draws near 
The shadowy gulf, there wakes a thought of fear, 
A thrilling thought, which, haply mocked before, 
We fain would stifle — but it sleeps no more! 
There are, who fly its murmurs 'midst the throng. 
That join the masque of revelry and song. 
Yet still Death's image, by its power restored. 
Frowns 'midst the roses of the festal board, 
And, when deep shades o'er earth and ocean 

brood. 
And the heart owns the might of solitude, 
Is its low whisper heard — a note profound. 
But wild and startling as the trumpet-sound, 
That bursts, with sudden blast, the dead repose 
Of some proud city, stormed by midnight foes ! 

Oh! vainly reason's scornful voice would prove 
That life hath nought to claim such lingering love. 
And ask, if e'er the captive, half unchained, 
Clung to the links which yet his step restrained. 
In vain philosophy, with tranquil pride, 
Would mock the feelings she perchance can hide. 
Call up the countless armies of the dead. 
Point to the pathway beaten by their tread, 
And say— "What wouldst thou^ Shall the fixed 

decree, 
Made for creation, be reversed for thee ?" 
— Poor, feeble aid ! — proud Stoic ! ask not why 
It is enough, that nature shrinks to die ! 
Enough, that horror, which thy words upbraid, 
Is her dread penalty, and must be paid ! 
— Search thy deep wisdom, solve the scarce de- 
fined 
And mystic questions of the parting mind. 
Half checked, half uttered — tell her, what shall 

burst 
In whelming grandeur, on her vision first, 
When freed from mortal fihus? — what viewless 

world 
Shall first receive her wing but half unfurled '? 
What awful and unbodied beings guide 
Her timid flight through regions yet untried 7 
Say if at once, her final doom to hear, 
Before her God the trembler must appear, 
Or wait that day of terror, when the sea 
Shall yield its hidden dead, and heaven and earth 

shall flee 1 
Hast thou no answer 1 — then deride no more 
The thoughts that shrinlc, yet cease not to explore 
Th' unknown, th' unseen, the future — though the 

heart, 
As at unearthly sounds, before them start, 



Though the frame shudder, and the spirit sigh, 
They have their source in immortality ! 
Whence, then, shall strength, wliich reason's aid 

denies. 
An equal to the mortal conflict rise 1 
When, on the swift pale horse, whose lightning 

pace. 
Where'er we fly, still wins the dreadful race. 
The mighty rider comes — oh ! whence shall aid 
Be drawn, to meet their rushing, undismayed 1 
— Whence, but from thee, Messiah ! — thou hast 

drained 
The bitter cup, till not the dregs remained ; 
To thee the struggle and the pang were known, 
The mystic horror — all became thine own ! 

But did no hand celestial succour bring. 
Till scorn and anguish haply lost their sting 1 
Came not th' Archangel, in the final hour, 
To arm thee with invulnerable power 1 
No, Son of God ! upon thy sacred head, 
The shafts of wrath their tenfold fury shed, 
From man averted — and thy path on high 
Passed through the strait of fiercest agony; 
For thus th' Eternal, with propitious eyes, 
Received the last, th' almighty sacrifice ! 

But wake ! be glad, ye nations ! from the tomb 
Is won the victory, and is fled the gloom ! 
The vale of death in conquest hath been trod, 
Break forth in joy, ye ransomed ! saith your God ! 
Swell ye the raptures of the song afar. 
And hail with harps your bright and morning star. 

He rose ! the everlasting gates of day 
Received the King of Glory on his way! 
The hope, the comforter of those who wept, 
And the first-fruits of them, in Him that slept. 
He rose, he triumphed I he will yet sustain 
Frail nature sinking in the strife of pain. 
Aided by Him, around the martyr's frame 
When flercely blazed a living shroud of flame, 
Hath the firm soul exulted, and the voice 
Raised the victorious hymn, and cried, "Rejoice!" 
Aided by Him, though none the bed attend. 
Where the lone suflerer dies without a friend, 
He, whom the busy world shall miss no more 
That morn one dew-drop from her countless store, 
Earth's most neglected child, with trusting heart, 
Called to the hope of glory, shall depart ! 

And say, cold Sophist ! if by thee bereft 
Of that high hope, to misery what were left 7 
But for the vision of the days to be. 
But for the Comforter, despised by thee. 
Should we not wither at the Chastener's look, 
Should we not sink beneath our God's rebuke, 
When o'er our heads the desolating blast, 
Fraught with inscrutable decrees, hath passed. 
And the stern power who seeks the noblest prey^ 
Hath called our fairest and our best awayl 
Should we not madden, when our eyes behold 
All that we loved in marble stillness cold, 



THE SCEPTIC. 



153 



No more responsive to our smile or sigh, 
Fixed — frozen — silent — all mortality 1 
But for the promise, all shall j'ct be well, 
Would not the spirit in its pangs rebel, 
Beneath such clouds as darkened, when the hand 
Of wrath lay hca\y on our prostrate land. 
And thou, just lent thy gladdened isles to bless. 
Then snatched from earth with all thy loveliness, 
With all a nation's blessings on thy head, 
O England's flower ! wert gathered to the dead 1 
But thou didst teach us. Thou to every heart, 
Faith's lofty lesson didst thyself impart ! 
When fled the hope through all thy pangs which 

smiled, 
When thy young bosom, o'er thy lifeless child, 
Yearned with vain longing — still thy patient eye. 
To its last light, beamed holy constancy ! 
Torn from a lot in cloudless sunshine cast, 
Amidst those agonies — thy first and last. 
Thy pale hp, quivering with convulsive throes. 
Breathed not a plaint — and settled in repose ; 
While bowed thy royal head to Him, whose power 
Spoke in the fiat of that midnight hour, 
Who from the brightest vision of a throne. 
Love, glory, empire, claimed thee for his own, 
And spread such terror o'er the sea-girt coast. 
As blasted Israel, when her ark was lost ! 

" It is the will of God !" — yet, yet we hear 
The words which closed thy beautiful career, 
Yet should we mourn thee in thy blest abode, 
But for that thought—" It is the will of God !" 
Who shall arraign th' Eternal's dark decree. 
If not one murmur then escaped from thee ? 
Oh 1 still, though vanishing without a trace, 
Thou hast not left one scion of thy race. 
Still may thy memory bloom our vales among. 
Hallowed by freedom, and enshrined in song! 
Still may thy pure, majestic spirit dwell. 
Bright on the isles which loved thy name so well, 
E'en as an angel, with presiding care. 
To wake and guard thine own high virtues there. 

For lo ! the hour when storm presaging skies 
Call on the watchers of the land to rise. 
To set the sign of fire on every height, (G) 
And o'er the mountains rear, with patriot might. 
Prepared, if summoned, in its cause to die, 
The banner of our faith, the Cross of victory! 

By this hath England conquered — field and 
flood 
Have owned her sovereignty — alone she stood. 
When chains o'er all the sceptred earth were 

thrown. 
In high and holy singleness, alone, 
But mighty in her God — and shall she now 
Forget before th' Omnipotent to bow ? 
From the bright fountain of her glory turn. 
Or bid strange fire upon his altars burni 
No ! severed land, midst rocks and billows rude, 
Throned in thy majesty of solitude, 



Still in the deep asylum of thy breast 

Shall the pure elements of greatness rest. 

Virtue and faith, the tutelary powers. 

Thy hearths that hallow, and defend thy towers I 

Still, where thy hamlet-vales, O chosen isle ! 
In the soft beauty of their verdure smile. 
Where yew and ehn o'crshade the lowly fanes, 
That guard the peasant's records and remains, 
May the blest echoes of the Sabbath-bell 
Sweet on the quiet of the woodlands swell. 
And from each cottage-dwelling of thy glades. 
When starlight glimmers through the deepening 

shades. 
Devotion's voice in choral hymns arise. 
And bear the Land's warm incense to the skies. 

There may the mother, as with anxious joy 
To Heaven her lessons consecrate her boy, 
Teach his young accents still the immortal lays 
Of Zion's bards, in ins]jiration's days, 
When Angels, whispering through the cedar's 

shade. 
Prophetic tones to Judah's harp conveyed ; 
And as, her soul all glistening in her eyes, 
She bids the prayer of infancy arise. 
Tell of his name, who left his throne on high, 
Earth's lowliest lot to bear and sanctify. 
His love divine, by keenest anguish tried. 
And fondly say — " My child, for thee He died !" 



NOTES. 

Note 1, page 150, col. 1. 

Patient, bacause Eternal. 
" He is patient, because He is eternal." 

St. Augustine, 

Note 2, page 150, col. 1. 
Fly, to the City of thy Refuge, fly! 
" Then ye shall appoint you cities, to be .cities 
of refuge for you ; that the slayer may flee thither 
which killeth any person at unawares. — And they 
shall be unto you cities for refuge from the aven- 
ger." — Numbers, chap. xxxv. 

Note 3, page 150, col. 2. 
And dark the chambers of its imagery. 
" Every man in the chambers of his imagery." 
Ezekicl, chap. viii. 

Note I, page 151, col. 3. 
Must drinlc the cup of trembling. 
" Thou hast drunken the dregs of the cup of 
trembling, and wrung them out." — Isaiah, chap. iL 

Note 5, page 151, col. 2. 
Come in the still small voice, and whisper— peace. 
" And behold, the Lord passed by, and a great 



154 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



and strong wind rent the mountains, and brake in 
pieces the rocks before the Lord ; but the Lord 
was not in the wind : and after the wind an earth- 
quake; but the Lord was not in the earthquake: 
and after the earthquake a fire ; but the Lord was 



not in the fire: and after the fire a still small 
voice." — 1 Kings, chap. xix. 

Note 6, page 153, col. 1. 

To set the sign of fire on every height. 

" And set up a sign of &i'e."— Jeremiah, chap. iv. 



itmx^uu to tlie J^emot^ isf tfir late Mim. 



" Among many nations was there no king like him." — Nehemiah. 

" Know ye not that there is a prince and a great man fallen this day in Israel ! 



Another warning sound ! the funeral bell, 

Startling the cities of the isle once more, 
With measured tones of melancholy swell, 

Strikes on th' awakened heart from shore to 
shore. 
He, at whose coming monarchs sink to dust, 

The chambers of our palaces hath trod, 
And the long-suffering spirit of the just, 

Pure from its ruins, hath returned to God ! 
Yet may not England o'er her Father weep ; 
Thoughts to her bosom crowd, too many, and too 
deep. 

Vain voice of Reason, hush ! — they yet must flow, 

The unrestrained, involuntary tears 
A thousand feelings sanctify the wo, 

Roused by the glorious shades of vanished years. 
Tell us no more 't is not the time for grief, 

Now that the exile of the soul is past. 
And Death, blest messenger of Heaven's relief. 

Hath borne the wanderer to his rest at last; 
For him. Eternity hath tenfold day. 
We feel, we know, 't is thus — yet Nature will 
have way. 

What though amidst us, like a blasted oak, 
Saddening the scene where once it nobly reign- 
ed, 

A dread memorial of the lightning-stroke. 

Stamped with its fiery record, he remained ; 

Around that shattered tree still fondly clung 
Th' undying tendrils of our love, which drew 

Fresh nurture from its deep decay, and sprung 
Luxuriant thence, to Glory's ruin true ; 

While England hung her trophies on the stem, 

That desolately stood, unconscious e'en of them. 

Of them unconscious ! Oh mysterious doom ! 

Who shall unfold the counsels of the skies? 
His was the voice which roused, as from the tomb. 

The realms high soul to loftiest energies ! 
His was the spirit, o'er the isles which threw 

The mantle of its fortitude ; and wrought 
In every bosom, powerful to renew 

Each dying spark of pure and generous thought ; 



The star of tempest ! beaming on the mast,* 
The seamen's torch of Hope, 'midst perils deep- 
ening fast. 

Then from th' unslumbering influence of his 

worth. 
Strength, as of inspiration, filled the land ; 
A young, but quenchless, flame went brightly 
forth. 

Kindled by him — who saw it not expand ! 
Such was the will of Heaven, — the gifted seer, 

Who with his God had communed, face to face, 
And from the house of bondage, and of fear, 

In faith victorious, led the chosen race ; 
He, through the desert and the waste their guide, 
Saw dimly from afar, the promised land — and died. 

O full of days and virtues ! on thy head 

Centred the woes of many a bitter lot ; 
Fathers have sorrowed o'er their beauteous dead, 
Eyes, quenched in night, the sun beam have 
forgot ; 
Minds have striven buoyantly with evil years. 
And sunk beneath their gathering weight at 
length ; 
But Pain for thee had filled a cup of tears. 

Where every anguish mingled all its strength ; 
By thy lost child we saw thee weeping stand, 
And shadows deep around fell from th' Eternal's 
hand. 

Then came the noon of glory, which thy dreams. 

Perchance of yore, had faintly prophesied; 
But what to thee the splendor of its beams'? 

The ice-rock glows not 'midst the summer's 
pride 1 
Nations leaped up to joy — as streams that burst 

At the warm touch of spring, their frozen chain. 
And o'er the plains, whose verdure once they 
nursed, 

Roll in exulting melody again ; 



* The glittering meteor, like a star, which often appears 
about a ship during tempests, if seen upon the main-mast, is 
considered by the sailors as an omen of good weather.— See 
Dampier's Voyages. 



STANZAS TO THE MEMORY OF THE LATE KING. 



155 



And bright o'er earth the long majestic lino 
Of England's triumphs swept, to rouse all hearts 
but thine. 

Oh ! what a dazzling vision, by the veil 

That o'er thy spirit hung, was shut from thee, 
When sceptred chieftains thronged, with palms, 
to hail 

The crowning isle, the anointed of the sea ! 
Within thy palaces the lords of earth 

Met to rejoice, — rich pageants glittered by, 
And stately revels imaged, in their mirth, 

The old magnificence of cliivalry. 
They reached not thee, — amidst them, yet alone. 
Stillness and gloom begirt one dim and shadowy 
throne. 

Yet was there mercy still — if joy no more 

Within that blasted circle might intrude. 
Earth had no grief whose footstep might pass o'er 

The silent limits of its solitude ! 
If all unheard the bridal song awoke 

Our hearts' full echoes, as it swelled on high ; 
Alike unheard the sudden dirge, that broke 

On the glad strain, with dread solemnity 1 
If the land's rose unheeded wore its bloom. 
Alike unfelt the storm, that swept it to the tomb. 

And she, who, tried through all the stormy past. 

Severely, deeply proved, in many an hour. 
Watched o'er thee, firm and faithful to the last, 

Sustained, inspired, by strong affection's power; 
If to thy soul her voice no music bore. 

If thy closed eye, and wandering spirit caught 
No light from looks, that fondly would explore 

Thy mien, for traces of responsive thought ; 
Oh! thou wert spared the pang that would have 

thrilled 
Thine inmost heart, when Death that anxious 
bosom stilled. 

Thy loved ones fell around thee — manhood's 
prime. 
Youth, with its glory, in its fulness, Age, 
All at the gates of their eternal clime 

Lay down, and closed their mortal pilgrimage ; 
The land wore ashes for its perished flowers. 
The grave's imperial harvest. Thou, mean- 
while. 
Didst walk unconscious through thy royal towers, 

The one that wept not in the tearful isle ! 
As a tired warrior, on his battle-plain. 
Breathes deep in dreams amidst the mourners and 
the slain. 

And who can tell what visions might be thine? 

The stream of thought, though broken, still was 
pure! 
Still o'er that wave the stars of heaven might shine. 

Where earthly image would no more endure ! 



Though many a step, of once familiar sound, 
Came as a stranger's o'er thy closing ear. 

And voices breathed forgotten tones around. 
Which that paternal heart once thrilled to hear, 

The mind hath senses of its own, and powers 

To people boundless worlds, in its most wander- 
ing hours. 

Nor might the phantoms to thy spirit known 

Be dark or wild, creations of remorse; 
Unstained by thee, the blameless past had thrown 

No fearful shadows o'er the future's course ; 
For thee no cloud, from memory's dread abyss, 

Might shape such forms as haunt the tyrant's 
eye; 
And closing up each avenue of bliss. 

Murmur their summons, to "despair and die!" 
No ! e'en though joy depart, though reason cease, 
Still virtue's ruined home is redolent of peace. 

They might be with thee still — the loved, the tried, 

The fair, the lost — they might be with thee still ! 
More softly seen, in radiance purified 

From each dim vapour of terrestrial ill; 
Long after earth received them, and the note 

Of the last requiem o'er their dust was poured, 
As passing sunbeams o'er thy soul might float 

Those forms, from us withdrawn — to thee re- 
stored ! 
Spirits of holiness, in light revealed. 
To commune with a mind whose source of tears 
was sealed. 

Came they with tidings from the worlds above, 

Those viewless regions, where the weary rest? 
Severed from earth, estranged from mortal love. 

Was thy mysterious converse with the blest 1 
Or shone their visionary presence bright 

With human beauty? — did their smiles renew 
Those days of sacred and serene delight. 

When fairest beings in thy pathway grew? 
Oh ! Heaven hath balm for every wound it makes, 
Heahng the broken heart; it smites — but ne'er 
forsakes. 

These may be phantasies — and this alone. 

Of all we picture in our dreams, is sure ; 
That rest, made perfect, is at length thine own, 

Rest, in thy God immortally secure ! 
Enough for tranquil faith ; released from all 

The woes that graved Heaven's lessons on thy 
brow. 
No cloud to dim, no fetter to inthral. 

Haply thine eye is on thy people now ; 
Whose love around thee still its offerings shed, 
Though vainly sweet as flowers, grief's tribute to 
the dead. 

But if th' ascending, disembodied mind. 

Borne on the wings of Morning, to the skies, 



156 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



May cast one glance of tenderness behind, 
On scenes, once hallowed by its mortal ties, 

How much hast thou to gaze on ! all that lay 
By the dark mantle of thy soul concealed. 

The might, the majesty, the proud array 
Of England's march o'er many a noble field, 

All spread beneath thee, in a blaze of light, 

Shine like some glorious land, viewed from an Al- 
pine height. 

Away presumptuous thought ! — departed saint ! 

To thy freed vision what can earth display 
Of pomp, of royalty, that is not faint. 

Seen from the birth-place of celestial day? 
Oh ! pale and weak the sun's reflected rays, 

E'en in their fervour of meridian heat, 
To him, who in the sanctuary may gaze 

On the bright cloud that fills the mercy-seat ! 
And thou mayest view, from thy divine abode, 
The dust of empires flit, before the breath of 
God. 

And yet we mourn thee ! yes ! thy place is void 
Within our hearts — there veiled thine image 
dwelt. 
But cherished still ; and o'er that tie destroyed. 
Though Faith rejoice, fond Nature still must 
melt. 
Beneath the long-loved sceptre of thy sway. 

Thousands were born, who now in dust repose, 
And many a head, with years and sorrows gray, 
Wore youth's bright tresses, when thy star 
arose ; 
And many a glorious mind, since that fair dawn, 
Hath filled our sphere with light, now to its source 
withdrawn. 



Earthquakes hs^ve rocked the nations : — things re- 
vered, 

Th' ancestral fabrics of the world, went down 
In ruins, from whose stones Ambition reared 

His lonely pyramid of dread renown. 
But when the fires, that long had slumbered, pent 

Deep in men's bosoms, with volcanic force. 
Bursting their prison-house, each bulwark rent, 

And swept each holy barrier from their course, 
Firm and unmoved, amidst that lava-flood. 
Still, by thine arm upheld, our ancient landmarks 
stood. 

Be they eternal ! — Be thy children found 

Still, to their country's altars, true like thee ; 
And, while " the name of Briton" is a sound 

Of rallying music to the brave and free, 
With the high feelings, at the word which swell, 

To make the breast a shrine for Freedom's flame, 
Be mingled thoughts of him, who loved so well, 

Who left so pure, its heritage of fame ! 
Let earth with trophies guard the conqueror's dust, 
Heaven in our souls embalms the memory of the 
just. 

All else shall pass away — the thrones of kings, 

The very traces of their tombs depart ; 
But number not with perishable things 

The holy records Virtue leaves the heart. 
Heir-looms from race to race ! — and oh ! in days, 

When, by the yet unborn, thy deeds are blest. 
When our sons learn, " as household words," thy 
praise, 

Still on thine offspring may thy spirit rest ! 
And many a name of that imperial line. 
Father and patriot ! blend, in England's songs, 
with thine ! 



A POEM. 



O Greece ! thou sapient nurse of finer arts, 
Which to bright Science blooniin? Fancy hore, 
Be this thy praise, and thou, and thou alone. 
In these hast led the >vay, in these excelled, 
Crowned with the laurel of assenting Time. 

TViomson's Liberty. 



Oh! who hath trod thy consecrated clime. 
Fair land of Phidias ! theme of lofty strains! 
And traced each scene, that, 'midst the wrecks 

of time. 
The print of Glory's parting step retains; 
Nor for awhile, in high-wrought dreams, forgot, 
Musing on years gone by in brightness there. 
The hopes, the fears, the sorrows of his lot, 
The hues his fate hath worn, or yet may wear; 



As when from mountain-heights, his ardent eye 
Of sea and heaven hath tracked the blue infinity 1 

II. 

Is there who views with cold, unaltered mien, 
His frozen heart with proud indifference fraught. 
Each sacred haunt, each unforgotten scene. 
Where Freedom triumphed, or where Wisdom 

taught ■? 
Souls that too deeply feel, oh, envy not 
The sullen calm your fate liath never known : 



MODERN GREECE. 



157 



Through the dull twilight of that wintry lot 
Genius ne'er pierced, nor Fancy's sunbeam 

shone, 
Nor those high thoughts, that, hailing Glory's 
trace, 
Glow with the generous flames of every age and 
race. 

III. 
But blest the wanderer, whose enthusiast mind 
Each muse of ancient days hath deep imbued 
With lofty lore; and all his thoughts refined ( 
In the calm school of silent solitude; 
Poured on his ear, 'midst groves and glens retired. 
The mighty strains of each illustrious clime, 
All that hath lived, while empires have expired, 
To float for ever on the winds of Time; 
And on his soul indelibly portrayed 
Fair visionary forms, to fill each classic shade. 

IV. 

Is not his mind, to meaner thoughts unknown, 
A sanctuary of beauty and of light? 
There he may dwell, in regions all his own, 
A world of dreams, where all is pure and bright. 
For him the scenes of old renown possess 
Romantic charms, all veiled from other eyes ; 
There every form of nature's loveliness 
Wakes in his breast a thousand sympathies; 
As music's voice, in some lone mountain-dell, 
From rocks and caves around calls forth each 
echo's swell. 

V. 

For him Italia's brilliant skies illume 
The bard's lone haunts, the warrior's combat- 
plains, 
And the wild- rose yet lives to breathe and bloom. 
Round Doric Paestum's solitary fanes. (1) 
But ijiost, fair Greece ! on thy majestiq shore 
He feels the fervors of his spirit rise; 
Thou birth-place of the Muse ! whose voice, of 

yore, 
Breathed in thy groves immortal harmonies ; 
And lingers still around the well-known coast 
Murmuring a wild farewell to fame and freedom 
lost. 

VI. 

By seas, that flow in brightness as they lave 
Thy rocks, th' enthusiast, rapt in thought, may 

stray. 
While roves his eye o'er that deserted wave. 
Once the proud scene of battle's dread array. 
— O ye blue waters ! ye, of old that bore 
The free, the conquering, hymned by choral 

strains, 
How sleep ye now around the silent shore, 
The lonely realm of ruins and ofthains! 
20 



. How are the mighty vanished in their pride ! 
E'en as their barks have left no traces on your tide. 

VII. 

Hushed are the Pagans whose exulting tone 
• Swelled o'er that tide(2) — the sons of battle 

sleep — 
The wind's wild sigh, the halcyon's voice, alone 
Bleml with the plaintive murmur of the deep. 
Yet when those waves have caught the splendid 
hues 
• Of morn's rich firmament, serenely bright, 
Or setting suns the lovely shore sufl!use 
With all their purple mellowness of light. 
Oh ! who could view the scene, so calmly fair, 
Nor dream that peace, and joy, and liberty, were 
there 1 

VIII. 

Where soft the sunbeams play, the zephyrs 

blow, • 
'T is hard to deem that misery can be nigh; 
Where the clear heavens in blue transparence 

glow. 
Life should be calm and cloudless as the sky; 
— Yet o'er the low, dark dwellings of the dead. 
Verdure and flowers in summer-bloom may 

smile, • 

And ivy-boughs their graceful drapery spread 
In green luxuriance o'er the ruined pile ; 
And mantling woodbine veils the withered 

tree, — 
And thus it is, fair land, forsaken Greece ! with 
thee. 

IX. 

For all the loveliness, and light, and bloom, 
That yet are thine, surviving many a storm. 
Are but as heaven's warm radiance on the 

tomb, 
The jrose's blush that masks the canker-worm ! — 
And thou art desolate — thy morn hath passed 
So dazzling in the splendor of its way. 
That the dark shades the night hath o'er thee 

cast 
Throw tenfold gloom around thy deep decay. 
Once proud in freedom, still in ruin fair, 
Thy fate hath been unmatched — in glory and 
despair. 

X. 

For thee, lost land! the hero's blood hath flowed, 
The hjgh in soul have brightly lived and died j 
For thee the light of soaring genius glowed 
O'er the fair arts it formed and glorified. 
Thine were the minds, whose energies sublime 
So distanced ages in their lightning-race, 
The task they left the sons of later time 
Was but to follow their illumined trace. 



158 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



— Now, bowed to earth, thy children, to be free, 
Must break each link that binds their filial hearts 
to thee. 

XI. 

Lo ! to the scenes of fiction's wildest tales, 
Her own bright East, thy son, Morea ! flies,(3) 
To seek repose 'midst rich, romantic vales, 
Whose incense mounts to Asia's vivid skies. 
There shall he rest? — Alas ! his hopes in vain 
Guide to the sun-clad regions of the palm. 
Peace dwells not now on oriental plain, 
Though earth is fruitfulness, and air is balm ; 
And the sad wanderer finds but lawless foes, 
Where patriarchs reigned of old in pastoral repose. 

XII. 
Where S3Tia's mountains rise,or Yemen's groves, 
Or Tigris rolls his genii-haunted wave, 
Life to his eye, as wearily it roves, 
Wears but two forms — the tyrant and the slave ! 
There the fierce Arab leads his daring horde. 
Where sweeps the sand-storm o'er the burning 

wild, 
There stern Oppression waves the wasting sword, 
O'er plains that smile, as ancient Eden smiled ; 
And the vale's bosom, and the desert's gloom, 
Yield to the injured there no shelter save the tomb. 

XIII. 
But thou, fair world! whose fresh, unsullied 

charms 
AVelcomed Columbus from. the western wave, 
Wilt thou receive the wanderer to thine arms,(4) 
The lost descendant of the immortal brave 1 
Amidst the wild magnificence of shades 
That o'er thy floods their twilight-grandeur cast. 
In the green depths of thine untrodden glades. 
Shall he not rear his bower of peace at last 1 
Yes ! thou hast many a lone, majestic scene. 
Shrined in primeval woods, where despot ne'er hath 
been. 

XIV. 
There, by some lake, whose blue, expansive breast 
Bright from afar, an inland-ocean, gleams, 
Girt with vast solitudes, profusely dressed 
In tints like those that float o'er poet's dreams ; 
Or where some flood from pine-clad mountain 

pours 
Its might of waters, glittering in their foam, 
'Midst the rich verdure of its wooded shores. 
The exiled Greek hath fixed -his sylvan home: 
So deeply lone, that round the wild retreat 
Scarce have the paths been trod by Indian hunts- 
man's feet. 

XV. 
The forests are around him in their pride. 
The green savannas, and the mighty waves ; 



And isles of flowers,bright-floating o'er the tide,(5) 
That images the fairy world it laves. 
And stillness, and luxuriance — o'er his head 
The ancient cedars wave their peopled bowers, 
On high the palms their graceful foliage spread, 
Cinctured with roses the magnolia towers, 
And from those green arcades a thousand tones 
Wake with each breeze, whose voice through Na- 
ture's temple moans. 

xyi. 

And there,- no traces left by brighter days, 
For glory lost may wake a sigh of grief, 
Some grassy mound perchance may meet his gaze, 
The lone memorial of an Indian chief 
There man not yet hath marked the bounjUesB 

plain 
With marble records of his fame and power 5 
The forest is his everlasting fane, 
The palm his monument, the rock his tower. 
Th' eternal torrent, and the giant tree. 
Remind him but that they, like him, are wildly free. 

XVII. 

But doth the exile's heart serenely there 
In sunshine dwell? — Ah ! when was exile blest? 
When did bright scenes, clear heavens, or sum- 
mer-air, 
Chase from his soul the fever of unrest? 
— There is a heart-sick weariness of mood, 
That like slow poison wastes the vital glow, 
And shrines itself in mental solitude, 
An uncomplaining and a nameless wo. 
That coldly smiles 'midst pleasure's brightest ray, 
As the chill glacier's peak reflects the flush of day. 

XVIII. 
Such grief is theirs, who, fixed on foreign shore, 
Sigh for the spirit of their native gales. 
As pines the seaman, 'midst the ocean's roar, 
For the green earth, with all its woods and vales. 
Thus feels thy child, whose memory dwells with 

thee. 
Loved Greece ! all sunk and blighted as thou art ; 
Though thought and step in western wilds be free. 
Yet thine are still the day-dreams of his heart ; 
The deserts spread between, the billows foam, 
Thou, distant and in chains, art yet his spirit's home. 

XIX. 
In vain for him the gay liannes entwine. 
Or the green fire-fly sparkles through the brakes, 
Or summer-winds waft odours from the pine. 
As eve's last blush is dying on the lakes. 
Through thy fair vales his fancy roves the while, 
Or breathes the freshness of Cithffiron's height, 
Or dreams how sofl;ly Athens' towers would smile. 
Or Sunium's ruins, in the fading light ; 
On Corinth's cliff what sunset hues may sleep, 
Or, at that placid hour, how calm th' Egean deep ! 



MODERN GREECE. 



159 



What scenes, what sunbeams, are to him like 

thine 1 
(The all of thine no tyrant could destroy !) 
E'en to the stranger's roving eye they shine, 
Sc^ as a vision of remembered joy. 
And he who comes, the pilgrim of a day, 
A pas.sing wanderer o'er each Attic hill, 
Sighs as his footsteps turn from thy decay, 
To laugliing climes, where all is splendour still ; 
And views with fond regret thy lessening shore, 
As he would watch a star that sets to rise no more. 

XXI. 

Realm of sad beauty ! thou art as a shrine 
That Fancy visits with Devotion's zeal, 
To catch high thoughts and impulses divine, ' 
And all the glow of soul enthusiasts feel 
Am'dst the tomb of heroes— for the brave 
Whose dust, so many an age, hath been thy soil. 
Foremost in honour's phalanx, died to save 
The land redeemed and hallowed by their toil ; 
And there is language in thy lightest gale, 
That o'er the plains they won seems murmuring 
yet their tale. 

XXII. 

And he, whose heart is weary of the strife 
Of meaner spirits, and whose mental gaze 
Would shun the dull, cold littleness of hfe. 
Awhile to dwell amidst sublimer days, 
Must turn to thee, whose every valley teems 
With proud remembrances that can not die. 
Thy glens are peopled with inspiring dreams, 
Thy winds, the voice of oracles gone by ; 
And 'midst thy laurel shades the wanderer hears 
The sound of mighty names, the hymns of vanish- 
ed years. 

XXIII. 

Through that deep solitude be his to stray. 
By Faun and Oread loved in ages past. 
Where clear Peneus winds his rapid way 
Through the cleft heights, in antique grandeur 

vast. 
Romantic Tempe ! thou art yet the same — 
Wild, as when sung by bards of elder time :(6) 
Years, that have changed thy river's classic 

name, (7) 
Have left thee still in savage pomp sublime ; 
And from thine Alpine clefts, and marble caves. 
In living lustre still break forth the fountain-waves. 

XXIV. 

Beneath thy mountain battlements and towers, 
Where the rich arbute's coral berries glow,(8) 
Or 'midst th' exuberance of thy forest bowers. 
Casting deep shadows o'er the current's flow, 



Oft shall the pilgrim pause, in lone recess. 

As rock and stream some glancing light have 

caught, 
And gaze, till Nature's mighty forms impress 
His soul with deep sublimity of thought ; 
And linger oft, recalling many a tale. 
That breeze, and wave, and wood, seem whisper- 
ing through thy dale. 

XXV. 

He, thought-entranced, may wander where of 

old 
From Delphi's chasm the mystic vapor rose. 
And trembling nations heard their doom foretold, 
By the dread spirit throned 'midst rocks, and 

snows. 
Though its rich fanes be blended with the dust, 
And silence now the hallowed haunt possess. 
Still is the scene of ancient rites august. 
Magnificent in mountain loneliness ; 
Still Inspiration hovers o'er the ground, 
Where Greece her councils held,(9) her Pythian 
victors crowned. 

XXVI. 

Or let his steps the rude, gray clitlS explore 
Of that wild pass, once dyed with Spartan blood, 
When by the waves that break on CEta's shore. 
The few, the fearless, the devoted, stood ! 
Or rove where, shadowing Mantinea's plain, 
Bloom the wild laurels o'er the warhke dead,(10) 
Or lone Plataea's ruins yet remain, 
To mark the battle-field of ages fled 
Still o'er such scenes presides a sacred power, 
Though Fiction's gods have fled from fountain, 
grot, and bower. 

XXVII. 

Oh! still unblamed may fancy fondly deem 
That, Ungering yet, benignant genii dwell, 
Where mortal worth has hallowed grove or 

stream. 
To sway the heart with some ennobling spell, 
For mightiest minds have felt their blest control, 
In the wood's murmur, in the zephyr's sigh. 
And these are dreams that lend a voice and soul. 
And a high power, to Nature's majesty! 
And who can rove o'er Grecian shores, nor feel, 
Soft o'er his inmost heart, their secret magic steall 

XXVIII. 

Yet many a sad reality is there, 

That fancy's bright illusions can not veil. 

Pure laughs the light, and bahny breathes the 

air, 
But Slavery's raein will tell its bitter tale ; 
And there not Peace, but Desolation, throws 
Delusive quiet o'er full many a scene, 



160 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



Deep as the brooding torpor of repose 

That follows where the earthquake's track hath 

been; 
Or solemn calm, on Ocean's breast that lies, 
When sinks the storm, and death has hushed the 
seaman's cries. 

XXIX. 

Hast thou beheld some sovereign spirit, hurled 
By Fate's rude tempest from its radiant sphere. 
Doomed to resign the homage of a world, 
For Pity's deepest sigh, and saddest tear"? 
Oh! hast thou watched the awful wreck of 

mind, 
That weareth still a glory in decay? 
Seen all that dazzles and delights mankind — 
Thought, science, genius, to the storm a prey. 
And o'er the blasted tree, the withered ground. 
Despair's wild nightshade spread, and darkly 
flourish round*? 

XXX. 

So mayest thou gaze, in sad and awe-struck 

thought, 
On the deep fall of that yet lovely clime : 
Such there" the ruin Time and Fate have 

wrought. 
So changed the bright, the splendid, the sub- 
lime! 
There the proud monuments of Valor's nnme, 
The mighty works Ambition piled on high, 
The rich remains by Art bequeathed to Fame — 
Grace, beauty, grandeur, strength, and sym- 
metry. 
Blend in decay ; while all that yet is fair 
Seems only spared to tell how much hath perished 
there ! 

XXXI. 

There, while around lie mingling in the dust, 
The column's graceful shaft, with weeds o'er- 

grown. 
The mouldering torso, the forgotten bust, 
The warrior's urn, the altar's mossy stone ; 
Amidst the loneliness of shattft-ed fanes. 
Still matchless monuments of other years, 
O'er cypress groves, or solitary plains. 
Its eastern form the minaret proudly rears ; 
As on some captive city's ruined wall 
The victor's banner waves, exulting o'er its fall. 

XXXII. 

Still, where that column of the mosque aspires, 
Landmark of slavery, towering o'er the waste. 
There science droops, the Muses hush their 

lyres, 
And o'er the blooms of fancy and of taste 



Spreads the chill blight — as in that orient isle, 
Where the dark upas taints the gale around,(ll) 
Within its precincts not a flower may smile. 
Nor dew nor sunshine fertilize the ground ; 
Nor wild birds' music float on zephyr's breath, 
But all is silence round, and solitude, and de^th. 

XXXIII. 

Far other influence poured the Crescent's light, 
O'er conquered realms, in ages past away; 
Full and alone it beamed, intensely bright. 
While distant climes in midnight darkness lay. 
Then rose th' Alhambra, with its founts and 

shades. 
Fair marble halls, alcoves, and orange bowers : 
Its sculptured lions,(12) richly wrought arcades, 

• Aerial pillars, and enchanted towers; 
Light, splendid, wild as some Arabian tale 

Would picture fairy domes, that fleet before the 
gale. 

XXXIV. 
Then fostered genius lent each Caliph's throne 
Lustre barbaric pomp could ne'er attain ; 
And stars unnumbered o'er the orient shone. 
Bright as that Pleiad, shrined in Mecca's 

fane. (13) 
From Bagdat's palaces the choral strains 
Rose and reechoed to the desert's bound. 
And Science, wooed on Egypt's burning plains, 
Reared her majestic head with glory crowned; 
And the wild Muses breathed romantic lore. 
From Syria's palmy groves to Andalusia's shore. 

XXXV. 

Those years have passed in radiance — they 

have passed. 
As sinks the day-star in the tropic main ; 
His parting beams no sofl; reflection cast, 
They burn — are quenched — and deepest sha- 
dows reign. 
And Fame and Science have not lefl; a trace," 
In the vast regions of the Moslem's power, — 
Regions, to intellect a desert space, 
A wild without a fountain or a flower, 
Where towers oppression 'midst the deepening 
glooms. 
As dark and lone ascends the cypress 'midst the 
tombs. 

XXXVI. 

Alas for thee, fair Greece ! when Asia poured 
Her fierce fanatics to Byzantium's wall. 
When Europe sheathed, in apathy, her sword. 
And heard unmoved the fated city's call. 
No bold crusaders ranged their serried line 
Of spears and banners round a falling throne 
And thou, O last and noblest Constantine !(14) 
Didst meet the storm unshrinking and alone. 



MODERN GREECE. 



161 



Oh ! blest to die in freedom, though in vain, 
Thine empire's proud exchange the grave, and not 
the cnain. 

XXXVII. 

Hushed is Byzantium — 't is the dead of night — 
The closing night of that imperial race !(,15) 
And all is vigil — but the eye of light 
Shall soon unfold, a wilder scene to trace : 
There is a murmuring stillness on the train, 
Thronging the midnight streets, at morn to die; 
And to the cross, in fair Sophia's fane. 
For the last time is raised Devotion's eye ; 
And, in his heart while^ith's bright visions 

rise, ^p 

There kneels the high-souled prince, the summoned 

of the akies. 

XXXVIII. • 

Day breaks in light and glory — 'ti^the hour 
Of conflict and of fate — the war-note calls — 
Despair hath lent a stern, delirious power 
To the brave few that guard the rampart walls. 
Far over Marmora's waves th' artillery's peal 
Proclaims an empire's doom in every note ; 
Tambour and trumpet swell the clash of steel, 
Round spire and dome the clouds of battle float; 
From camp and wave rush on the crescent's host. 
And the Seven Towers(16) are scaled, and all is 
won and lost. 

XXXIX. 

Then, Greece! the tempest rose, that burst on 

thee, 
Land of the bard, the warrior, and the sage ! 
Oh ! where were then thy sons, the great, the 

freel 
Whose deeds are guiding-stars from age to age? 
Though firm thy battlements of crags and snows. 
And bright the memory of thy days of pride. 
In mountain might though Corinth's fortress 

rose, 
On, unresisted, rolled th' invading tide ! 
Oh! vain the rock, the rampart, and the tower, 
If Freedom guard them not with Mind's uncon- 

quercJ power. 

XL. 

Where were th' avengers then, whose viewless 

might 
Preserved inviolate their awful fane,(17) 
When through the steep defiles to Delphi's 

height, 
In martial splendor poured the Persian's train 1 
Then did tliose mitrhty and mysterious Powers, 
Armed with the elements, to vengeance wake. 
Call the dread storms to darken round their tow- 
ers. 
Hurl down the rocks, and bid the thunders break; 



Till far around, with deep and fearful clang. 
Sounds of unearthly war through wild Parnassus 
rang. 

XLI. 

Where was the spirit of the victor-throng. 
Whose tombs are glorious by Scamander's tide, 
Whose names areTaright in everlasting song, 
The lords of war, the praised, the deified 1 
Where he, the hero of a thousand lays, 
Who from the dead at Marathon arose(18) 
All armed ; and beaming on th' Athenian's gaze, 
A battle-meteor, guided to their foesi 
Or they whose forms, to Alaric's awe-struck 
eye,(19) 
Hovering o'er Athens, blazed, in airy panoply 7 

XLII. 

Ye slept, oh heroes ! chief ones of the earth !(20) 
High demi-gods of ancient days ! ye slept, 
Their lived no spark of your ascendant worth, 
When o'er your land the victor Moslem swept; 
No patriot then the sons of freedom led. 
In mountain-pass devotedly to die ; 
The martyr-spirit of resolve was fled, 
And the high soul's unconquered buoyancy ; 
And by your graves, and on your battle-plains, 
Warriors 1 your children knelt, to wear the stran- 
ger's chains. 

XLIII. 

Now have your trophies vanished, and your 

. homes 
Are mouldered from the earth, while scare* re- 
main 
E'en the faint traces of the ancient tombs 
That mark where sleep the slayers or the slain. 
Your deeds are with the deeds of glory flown. 
The lyres are hushed that swelled your fame 

afar. 
The halls that echoed to their sounds are gone, 
Perished the conquering weapons of your 

war;(21) 
And if a massy stone your names retain, 
'T is but to tell your sons, for them ye died in vain. 

XLIV. 

Yet, where some lone sepulchral relic stands. 
That with those names tradition hallows yet, 
Oft shall the wandering son of other lands 
Linger in solemn thought and hushed regret. 
And still have legends marked the lonely spot 
Where low the dust of Agamemnon lies; 
And shades of kings and leaders unforgot. 
Hovering around, to fancy's vision rise. 
Souls of the heroes ! seek your rest again, 
Nor mark how changed the realms that saw your 
glory's reign. 



162 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



XLV, 

Lo, where th' Albanian spreads his despot sway 
O'er Thessaly's rich vales and glowing plains, 
Whose sons in sullen abjectness obey, 
Nor lift the hand indignant at its chains: 

' Oh ! doth the land that gave Achilles birth, 
And many a chief of old, illustrious line. 
Yield not one spirit of unconquered worth. 
To kindle those that now in bondage pine 1 
No! on its mountain-air is slavery's breath, 

And terror chills the hearts whose uttered plaints 
were death. 



XLVI. 

Yet if thy light, fair Freedom, rested there. 
How rich in charms were that romantic clime. 
With streams, and woods, and pastoral valleys 

fair. 
And walled with mountains, haughtily sublime. 
Heights^ that might well be deemed the Muses' 

reign. 
Since, claiming proud alliance with the skies. 
They lose in loftier spheres their wild domain ; 
Meet home for those retired divinities 
■ That love, where nought of earth may e'er in- 
trude. 
Brightly to dwell on high, in lonely sanctitude. 

XLVII. 

There in rude grandeur, daringly ascends 
Stern Pindus, rearing many a pine-clad height; 
He with the clouds his bleak dominion blends. 
Frowning o'er vales, in woodland verdure bright. 
Wild and august in consecrated pride, 
There through the deep-blue heaven Olympus 

towers, 
Girdled with mists, light-floating as to hide 
The rock-built palace of immortal powers ; 
Where far on high the sunbeam finds repose. 
Amidst th' eternal pomp of forests and of snows. 

XLVIII. 

Those savage cliffs and solitudes might seem 
The chosen haunts where Freedom's foot would 

roam; 
She loves to dwell by glen and torrent-streara, 
And make the rocky fastnesses her home. 
And in the rushing of the mountain-flood. 
In the wild eagle's sohtary cry. 
In sweeping winds that peal through cave and 

wood. 
There is a voice of stern sublimity. 
That swells her spirit to a loftier mood 
Of solemn joy severe, of power, of fortitude. 

XLIX. 

But from those hills the radiance of her smile 
Hath vanished long, her step hath fled afar ; 



O'er Suli's frowning rocks she paused awhile.(22) 
Kindling the watch-fires of the mountain-War ; 
And brightly glowed her ardent spirit there, 
Still brightest 'midst privation; o'er distress 
It cast romantic splendour, and despair 
But fanned that beacon of the wilderness; 
And rude ravine, and precipice, and dell 
Sent their deep echoes forth, her rallying voice to 
swell. 

L- 

Dark children of the hills ! 't was then ye wrought 
Deeds of fierce daring, rudely, sternly grand ; 
As 'midst your craggy citadels ye fought. 
And woman minljfed with your warrior-band. 
Then on the cliff the frantic mother stood(23) 
High o'er the river's darkly-rolling-wave. 
And hurled, in dread dehrium, to the flood, 
Her free-born infant, ne'er to be a slave. 
For all was lost — all, save the power to die 
The wild, indignant death of savage liberty. 

LI. 

Now is that strife a tale of vanished days, 
With mightier things forgotten soon to lie; 
Yet oft hath minstrel sung, in lofty lays. 
Deeds less adventurous, energies less high. 
And the dread struggle's fearful memory still 
O'er each wild rock a wilder aspect throws ; 
Sheds darker shadows o'er the frowning hill, 
More solemn quiet o'er the glen's repose ; 
Lends to the rustling pines a deeper moan, 
And the hoarse river's voice a murmur not its own. 

LII. 

For stillness now — the stillness of the dead, 
Hath wrapt that conflict's lone and awful scene, 
And man's forsaken homes, in ruin spread, 
Tell where the storming of the cliffs hath been. 
And there, o'er wastes magnificently rude, 
What race may rove, unconscious of the chain'? 
Those realms have now no desert unsubdued, 
Where Freedom's banner may be reared again. 
Sunk are the ancient dwellings of her fame, 
The children of her sons inherit but their name. 

LIII. 
Go, seek proud Sparta's monuments and 

fanes ! 
In scattered fragments o'er the vale they lie! 
Of all they were not e'en enough remains 
To lend their fall a mournful majesty.(24) 
Birth-place of those whose names we first re- 
vered 
In song and story — temple of the free ! 
Oh thou, the stern, the haughty, and the feared. 
Are such thy relics, and can this be thee 1 
Thou shouldst have left a giant-wreck behind, 
And e'en in ruin claimed the wonder of mankind. 



MODERN GREECE. 



163 



LIV. 

For thine were spirits cast in other mould 
Than all beside — and proved by ruder test; 
They stood alone — the proud, the firm, the bold, 
With the same seal indelibly imprest. 
Theirs were no bright varieties of mind, 
One image stamped the rough, colossal race. 
In rugged grandeur frowning o'er mankind. 
Stern, and disdainful of each milder grace. 
As to the sky some mighty rock may tower. 
Whose front can brave the storm, but will not 
rear the flower. 

LV. 

Such were thy sons — their life a battle-day ! 
Their youth one lesson how for thee to die ! 
Closed is that task, and they have passed away 
Like softer beings trained to aims less high. 
Yet bright on earth their fame who proudly fell, 
True to their shields, the champions of thy 

cause. 
Whose funeral column bade the stranger tell 
How died the brave, obedient to thy laws !("25) 
O lofty mother of heroic worth. 
How couldst thou live to bring a meaner ofTspring 
forth 1 

LVI. 
Hadst thou but perished with the firee, nor 

known 
A second race, when Glory's noon went by, 
-Then had thy name in single brightness shone 
A watch-word on the helm of liberty ! 
Thou shouldst have passed with all thy light of 

fame, 
And proudly sunk in ruins, not in chains. 
But slowly set thy star 'midst clouds of shame. 
And tyrants rose amidst thy falling fanes ; 
And thou, surrounded by thy warriors' graves, 
Hast drained the bitter cup once mingled for thy 
slaves. 

LVII. 

Now all is o'er — for thee alike are flown 
Freeddln's bright noon, and slavery's twilight 

cloud ; 
And in thy fall, as in thy pride, alone, 
Deep solitude is round thee, as a shroud. 
Home of Leonidas! thy halls are low. 
From their cold altars have thy Lares fled, 
O'er thee un..iarked the sun-beams fade or glow, 
And wild flowers wave, unbent by human tread, 
And 'midst thy silence, as tlie grave's profound, 
A voice, a step would seem as some unearthly 
sound. 

LVIIL 
Taygetus still lifts his awful brow, 
High o'er the mouldering city of tiie dead. 



Sternly sublime; while o'er his robe of snow 
Heaven's floating tints their warm sufi'usions 

spread. 
And yet his rippling wave Eurotas leads 
By tombs and ruins o'er the silent plain, 
AVhile whispering there, his own wild graceful 

reeds 
Rise as of old, when hailed by classic strain; . 
There the roso-laurels still in beauty wave, (26) 
And a frail shrub survives to bloom o'er Sparta's 
grave. 

LIX. 

Oh ! thus it is with man — a tree, a flower, 
While nations perish, still renews its race, 
And o'er the fallen records of his power 
Spreads in wild pomp, or smiles in fairy grace. 
The laurel shoots when those have passed away 
Once rivals for its crown, the brave, the free ; 
The rose is flourishing o'er beauty's clay, t 
The myrtle blows when love hath ceased to be 
Green waves the bay when song and bard are 
fled, 
And all that round us blooms, is blooming o'er the 
dead. 

LX. 

And still the olive spreads its foliage round 
Morea's fallen sanctuaries and towers, 
Once its green boughs Minerva's voturies crown- 
ed. 
Deemed a meet offering for celestial powers. 
The suppliant's hand its holy branches bore;(27) 
They waved around th' Olympic victor's head ; 
And, sanctified by many a rite of 3'Ore, 
Its leaves the Sjfertan's honored bier o'erspread : 
Those rites have vanished — but o'er vale and hill 
Its fruitful groves arise, revered and hallowed 
still.(-38) 

LXI. 

Where now thy shrines, Eleusis! where thy 

fane 
Of fearful visions, mysteries wild and high 1 
The pomp of rites, the sacrificial train. 
The long procession's awful pageantry ? 
GLuenched is the torch of Ccres(29) — all around 
Decay hath spread the stillness of her reign, 
There never more shall choral hymns resound, 
O'er the hushed earth and solitary main ; 
Whose wave from Salamis deserted flows, 
To bathe a silent shore of desolate repose. 

LXII. 

And oh! ye secret and terrific powers, 
Dark oracles! in depth of groves that dwelt, 
How are they sunk, the altars of your bowers, 
Where Superstition trembleil as she knelt ! 



1C4 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



Ye,.the unknown, the viewless ones ! that made 
The elements your voice, the wind and wave ; 
Spirits ! whose influence darkened many a shade. 
Mysterious visitants of fount and cave ! 
How long your power the awe-struck nations 
swayed, 
How long earth dreamt of you, and shudderingly 
obeyed ! 

LXIII. 

And say, what marvel, in those early days, 
While yet the light of heaven-born truth was 

not. 
If man around him cast a fearful gaze, 
Peophng with shadowy powers each dell and 

grot? 
Awful is Nature in her savage forms, 
Her solemn voice commanding in its might. 
And mystery then was in the rush of storms, 
The gloom of woods, the majesty of night; 
And mortals heard fate's language in the blast, 
And reared your forest-shrines, ye phantoms of 
the past! 

LXiy. 

Then through the foliage not a breeze might 

sigh 
But with prophetic sound — a waving tree, 
A meteor flashing o'er the summer sky, 
A bird's wild flight, revealed the things to be. 
All spoke of unseen natures and conveyed 
Their inspiration ; still they hovered round. 
Hallowed the temple, whispered through the 

shade. 
Pervaded loneliness, gave soul to sound ; 
Of them the fount, the foresf, murmured still, 
Their voice was in the stream, their footstep on 
the hill. 

LXV. 

Now is the train of Superstition flown. 
Unearthly Beings walk on earth no more; 
The deep wind swells with no portentous tone. 
The riistling wood breathes no fatidic lore, 
Fled are the phantoms of Livadia's cave. 
There dwell no shadows, but of crag and steep; 
Fount of Oblivion! in thy gushing wave,(30) 
That murmurs nigh, those powers of terror 

sleep. 
Oh ! that such dreams alone had fled that clime. 
But Greece is changed in all that could be changed 
by time! 

LXVl. 

Her skies are those whence many a mighty bard 
Caught inspiration, glorious as their beams : 
Her hills the same that heroes died to guard, 
Her vales, that fostered art's divinest dreams ! 



But that bright spirit o'er the land that shone, 
And all around pervading influence poured, 
That lent the harp of ^schylus its tone. 
And proudly hallowed Lacedsmon's sword. 
And guided Phidias o'er the yielding stone, 
With them its ardorus lived — with them its light is 
flown. 

LXVII. 

Thebes, Corinth, Argos ! — ye, renowned of old, 
Where are your chiefs of high romantic name 1 
How soon the tale of ages may be told ! 
A page, a verse, records the fall of fame. 
The work of centuries — we gaze on you. 
Oh cities ! once the glorious and. the free. 
The lofty tales that charmed our youth- renew, 
And wondering ask, if these their scenes could 

be? 
Search for the classic fane, the regal tomb. 
And find the mosque alone — a record of their 
doom ! 

LXVIII. 

How oft hath war his host of spoilers poured, 
Fair Elis ! o'er thy consecrated vales 1(31) 
There have the sunbeams glanced on spear and 

sword, 
And banners floated on the balmy gales. 
Once didst thou smile, secure in sanctitude 
As some enchanted isle 'mid stormy seas; 
On thee no hostile footstep might intrude, 
And pastoral sounds alone were on thy breeae. 
Forsaken home of peace 1 that spell is broke, 
Thou too hast heard the storm and bowed beneath 
the yoke. 

LXIX. 

And through Arcadia's wild and lone retreats 
Far other sounds have echoed than the strain 
Of faun and dryad, from their woodland seats, 
Or ancient reed of peaceful mountain-swajn ! 
There, though at times Alpheus yet surveys. 
On his green banks renewed, the classic dance, 
And nymph-like forms, and wild melo^^ious lays, 
Revive the sylvan scenes of old romance ; 
Yet brooding fear and dark suspicion dwell, 
'Midst Pan's deserted haunts, by fountain, cave, 
and dell. 

LXX. 

But thou, fair Attica ! whose rocky bound 
All art and nature's richest gifl;s enshrined, 
Thou little sphere, whose soul-illumined round 
Concentrated each sunbeam of the mind ; 
Who, as the summit of some Alpine height 
Glows earliest, latest, with the blush of day. 
Didst first imbibe the splendours of the light. 
And smile the longest in its lingering ray;(32') 



MODERN GREECE. 



165 



Oh ! let us gaze on thee, and fondly deem 
The^ast awhile restored, the present but a dream. 

LXXI. 

Let Fancy's vivid hues awhile prevail — 
Wake at her call — be all thou wert once more ! 
Hark, hymns of triumph swell on every gale! 
Lo, bright processions move along thy shore ! 
Again thy temples 'midst the olive-shade, 
Lovely in chaste simplicity arise ; 
And graceful monuments, in grove and glade, 
Catch the warm tints of thy resplendent skies ; 
And sculptured forms, of high and heavenly 
mien, 
In their calm beauty smile, around the sun-bright 
scene. 

LXXII. 

Again renewed by thought's creative spells, 
In all her pomp thy city, Theseus ! towers : 
Within, around, the light of glory dwells 
On art's fair fabrics, wisdom's holy bowers. 
Their marble fanes in finished grace ascend. 
The pencil's world of life and beauty glows ; 
Shrines, pillars, porticoes, in grandeur blend. 
Rich with the trophies of barbaric foes ; 
And groves of platane wave in verdant pride, 
The sage's blest retreats, by calm Ilissus' tide. 

LXXIII. 

Bright as that fairy vision of the wave, 
Raised by the magic of Morgana's wand, (33) 
On summer seas, that undulating lave 
Romantic Sicily's Arcadian strand ; 
That pictured scene of airy colonnades. 
Light palaces, in shadowy glory drest. 
Enchanting groves, and temples, and arcades, 
Gleaming and floating on the ocean's breast ; 
Athens ! thlis fair the dream of thee appears. 
As Fancy's eye pervades the veiling cloud of years. 

LXXIV. 
Still be that cloud withdrawn — oh! mark on 

high, 
Crowning yon hill, with temples richly graced. 
That fane, august in perfect symmetry. 
The purest model of Athenian taste. 
Fair Parthenon ! thy Doric pillars rise 
In simple dignity, thy marble's hue 
Unsullied shines, reUeved by brilliant skies. 
That round thee spread their deep ethereal blue ; 
And art o'er all thy light proportions throws 
The harmony of grace, the beauty of repose. 

LXXV. 

And lovely o'er thee sleeps the sunny glow. 
When morn and eve in tranquil splendour reign, 
And on thy sculptures, as they smile, bestow 
Hues that the pencil emulates in vain. 



Then the fair forms by Phidias wrought, unfold 
Each latent grace, developing in light, 
Catch from soft clouds of purple and of gold, 
Each tint tliat passes, tremulously bright ; 
And seem indeed whate'er devotion deems. 
While so suffused with heaven, so mingling with 
its beams. 

LXXVI. 

But oh ! what words the vision may portray, 
The form of sanctitude that guards thy shrine? 
There stands thy goddess, robed in war's array, 
Supremely glorious, awfully divine! 
With spear and helm she stands, and flowing 

vest, 
And sculptured segis, to perfection wrought. 
And on each heavenly hneament imprest, 
Calmly sublime, the majesty of thought ; 
The pure intelligence, the chaste repose, — 
All that a poet's dream around Minerva throws. 

LXXVIl. 

Bright age of Pericles ! let fancy still 
Through Time's deep shadows all thy splendour 

trace, 
And in each work of art's consummate skill 
Hail the free spirit of thy lofty race. 
That spirit, roused by every proud reward. 
That hope could picture, glory could bestow, 
Fostered by all the sculptor and the bard 
Could give of immortality below. 
Thus were thy heroes formed, and o'er their name 
Thus did thy genius shed imperishable fame. 

LXXVIII. 

Mark in the thronged Ceramicus, the train 
Of mourners weeping o'er the martyred brave : 
Proud be the tears devoted to the slain, 
Holy the amaranth strewed upon their grave !(34) 
And hark — unrivalled eloquence proclaims 
Their deeds, their trophies, with triumphant 

voice ! 
Hark! Pericles records their honoured names!(35) 
Sons of the fallen, in their lot rejoice : 
What hath life brighter than so bright a doom 1 
What power hath fate to soil the garlands of the 

tomb? 

LXXIX. 

Praise to the valiant dead ! for them doth art 
Exhaust her skill, their triumphs bodying forth ; 
Theirs are enshrined names, and every heart 
Shall bear the blazoned impress of their worth. 
Bright on the dreams of youth their fame shall 

rise. 
Their fields of fight shall epic song record, 
And when the voice of battle rends the skies. 
Their name shall be their country's rallying 

word ! 



166 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



While fane and column rise august to tell 
How Athens honours those for her who proudly 
fell. 

LXXX. 

City of Theseus ! bursting on the mind, 
Thus dost thou rise, in all thy glory fled ! 
Thus guarded by the mighty of manliind, 
Thus hallowed by the memory of the dead: 
Alone in beauty and renown — a scene 
Whose tints are drawn from freedom's loveliest 

ray. 
'T is but a vision now — yet thou hast been 
More than the brightest vision might portray ; 
And every stone, with but a vestige fraught 
Of thee, hath latent power to wake some lofty 

thought. 

LXXXI. 

Fallen are thy fabrics, that so oft have rung 
To choral melodies, and tragic lore ; 
Now is the lyre of Sophocles unstrung, 
• The song that hails Harmodius peals no more. 
Thy proud Pirseus is a desert strand. 
Thy stately shrines are mouldering on their hill. 
Closed are the triumphs of the sculptor's hand, 
The magic voice of eloquence is still ; 
Minerva's veil' is rent(36) — her image gone. 
Silent the sage's bower — the warrior's tomb o'er- 
thrown. 

LXXXII. 

Yet in decay thine exquisite remains 
Wondering we view, and silently revere 
As traces left on earth's forsaken plains 
By vanished beings of a nobler sphere ! 
Not all the old magnificence of Rome, 
All that dominion there hath left to time, 
Proud Coliseum, or commanding dome, 
Triumphal arch, or obelisk sublime, 
Can bid such reverence o'er the spirit steal, 
As aught by thee imprest with beauty's plastic 
seal. 

LXXXIII. 

Though still the empress of the sun-burnt waste. 

Palmyra rises, desolately grand — 

Though with rich gold(37) and massy sculpture 

graced, 
Commanding still, Persepolis may stand 
In haughty solitude — though sacred Nile 
The first-born temples of the world surveys. 
And many an awful and stupendous pile 
Thebes of the hundred gates e'en yet displays ; 
City of Pericles ! oh, who hke thee 
Can teach how fair the works of mortal hand may 

hel 



LXXXIV. 

Thou led'st the way to that illumined sphere 
Where sovereign beauty dwells; and thence 

didst bear 
Oh, still triumphant in that high career ! 
Bright archetypes of all the grand and fair. 
And still to thee th' enlightened mind hath flown. 
As to her country ; — thou hast been to earth 
A cynosure : — and, e'en from victory's throne, 
Imperial Rome gave homage to thy worth; 
And nations rising to their fame afar, 
Still to thy model turn, as seamen to their star. 

LXXXV. 

Glory to those whose relics thus arrest 
The gaze of ages ! Glory to the free ! 
For they, they only, could have thus imprest 
Their mighty image on the years to be! 
Empires and cities in oblivion lie. 
Grandeur may vanish, conquest be forgot: — 
To leave on earth renown that can not die, 
Of high-souled genius is th' unrivalled lot. 
Honour to thee, O Athens ! thou hast shown 
What mortals may attain, and seized the paha 
alone. 

LXXXVI. 

Oh! live there those who view with scornful 

eyes 
All that attests the brightness of thy prime! 
Yes; they who dwell beneath thy lovely skies. 
And breathe. th' inspiring ether of thy clime! 
Their path is o'er the mightiest of the dead, 
Their homes are 'niidst the works of noblest 

arts ; 
Yet all around their gaze, beneath their tread, 
Not one proud thrill of loftier thoftght imparts. 
Such are the conquerors of Minerva's land, 
Where genius first revealed the triumphs of his 
hand! 

LXXXVII. 

For them in vain the glowing light may smile, 
O'er the pale marble, colouring's warmth to 

shed. 
And in chaste beauty many a sculptured j)ile 
Still o'er the dust of heroes lift its head. 
No patriot feeling binds them to the soil. 
Whose tombs and shrines their fathers have not 

reared. 
Their glance is cold indifference, and their toil 
But to destroy what ages have revered, 
As if exulting sternly to erase 
Whate'er might prove that Ian4 had nursed a no- 
bler race. 



MODERN GREECE ■ 



16' 



LXXXVIII. 

And who may grieve that rescued from their 

hands, 
Spoilers of excellence and foes to art, 
Thy relics, Athens ! borne to other lands. 
Claim homage still to thee from every heart? 
Though now no more th' exploring stranger's 

sight, 
Fixed in deep reverence on Minerva's fane, 
Shall hail, beneath their native heaven of light, 
All that remained of forms adored in vain ; 
A few short years — and, vanished from the 
scene. 

To blend with classic dust their proudest lot had 
been. 

LXXXIX. 

Fair Parthenon ! yet still must fancy weep 
For thee, thou work of nobler spirits flown. 
Bright, as of old, the sunbeams o'er thee sleep 
In all their beauty still — and thine is gone! 
Empires have sunk since thou wert first revered 
And varying rites have sanctified thy shrine. 
The dust is round thee of the race that reared 
Thy walls , and thou — their fate must soon be 

thine ! 
But when shall earth again exult to see 
Visions divine like theirs renewed in aught like 
thee? 

XC. 

Lone are thy pillars now — each passing gale 
Sighs o'er them as a spirit's voice, which moaned 
That loneliness, and told the plaintive tale 
Of the bright synod once above them throned. 
Mourn, graceful ruin! on thy sacred hill, 
Thy gods, thy rites, a kindred fate have shared: 
Yet art thou honoured in each fragment still. 
That wasting years and barbarous hands had 

spared ; 
Each hallowed stone, from rapine's fury borne. 
Shall wake bright dreams of thee in ages yet un- 
born. 

XCI. 

Yes; in those fragments, though by time de- 
faced. 
And rude insensate corfquerors, yet remains 
All that may charm th' enlightened eye of taste. 
On shores where still inspiring freedom reigns. 
As vital fragrance breathes from every part 
Of the crushed myrtle, or the bruised rose, 
E'en thus th' essential energy of art, 
There in each wreck imperishably glows !(38) 
The soul of Athens lives in every line, 
Pervading brightly still the rums of her shrine. 



XCII. , 

Mark— on the storied frieze the graceful train, 
The holy festival's triumphal throng. 
In fair procession, to Minerva's fane, 
With many a sacred symbol move along. 
There every shade of bright existence trace, 
The fire of youth, the dignity of age ; 
The matron's calm austerity of grace. 
The ardent warrior, the benignant sage; 
The nymph's light symmetry, the chiefs proud 
mien. 
Each ray of beauty caught and mingled in the 
scene. 

XCIII. 

Art unobtrusive there ennobles form, (39) 
Each pure, chaste outline exquisitely flows; 
There e'en the steed, with bold expression 

warm, (40) 
Is clothed with majesty, with being glows. 
One mighty mind hath harmonized the whole; 
Those varied groups the same bright impress 

bear; 
One beam and essence of exalting soul 
Lives in the grand, the delicate, the fair; 
And well that pageant of the glorious dead 
Blends us with nobler days, and loflier spirits fled. 

XCIV. 

O conquering Genius ! that couldst thus detain 
The subtle graces, fading as they rise. 
Eternalize expression's fleeting reign, 
Arrest warm life in all its enejrgies. 
And fix them on the stone — thy glorious lot 
Might wake ambition's envy, and create 
Powers half divine: while nations are forgot, 
A thought, a dream of thine hath vanquished 

fate! 
And when thy hand first gave its wonders birth, 
The realms that hail them now scarce claimed a 
name on earth. 

XCV. 

Wert thou some spirit of a purer sphere 
But once beheld, and never to return 1 
No — we may hail again thy bright career, 
Again on earth a kindred fire shall burn ! 
Though thy least relics, e'en in ruin, bear 
A stamp of heaven, that ne'er hath been re- 
newed — 
A Hght inherent — let not man despair: 
Still be hope ardent, patience unsubdued: 
For still is nature fair, and thought divine, 
And art hath won a world in models pure as 
thine.(41) 



168 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



XCVI. 
Gaze on yon forrfis, corroded and defaced — 
Yet there the germ of future glory lies ! 
Their virtual grandeur could not be erased, 
It clothes them still, though veiled from common 

eyes. 
They once were gods and heroes(42) — and be- 
held 
As the blest guardians of their native scene ; 
And hearts of warriors, sages, bards, have swelled 
With awe that owried their sovereignty of mien. 
— Ages have vanished since those hearts were 
cold, 
And still those shattered forms retain their godlike 
mould. 

XCVII. 
'Midst their bright kindred, from their marble 

throne, 
They have looked down on thousand storms of 

time ; 
Surviving power and fame and freedom flown, 
They still remained, still tranquilly sublime ! 
Till mortal hands the heavenly conclave marred. 
Th' Olympian groups have sunk, and are forgot; 
Not e'en their dust could weeping Athens guard — 
— But these were destined to a nobler lot ! 
And they have borne, to light another land. 
The quenchless ray that soon shall gloriously ex- 
pand. 

XCVIII. 
Phidias ! supreme in thought ! what hand but 

thine. 
Inhuman works thus blending earth and heaven. 
O'er nature's truth hath shed that grace divine, 
To mortal form immortal grandeur given 1 
What soul but thine, infusing all its power, 
In these last monuments of matchless days. 
Could from their ruins, bid young Genius tower. 
And Hope aspire to more exalted praise 1 
And guide deep thought to that secluded height, 
Wiiere excellence is throned, in })urity of light. 

XCIX. 
And who can tell how pure, how bright a flame. 
Caught from these models, may illume the west ? 
What British Angelo may rise to fame,(43) 
On the free isle what beams of art may rest ? 
Deem not, O England ! that by climes confined, 
Genius and taste diffuse a partial ray ;(44) 
Deem not th' eternal energies of mind 
Swayed by that sun whose doom is hut decay'! 
Shall thought be fostered but by skies serene 7 
No ! thou hast power to be what Athens e'er hath 
been. 

C. 
^ut thine are treasures ofl unprized, unknown, 
And cold neglect hath blighted many a mind, 



O'er whose young ardours, had thy smile but 

shone. 
Their soaring flight had left a world behind 
And many agifted hand, that might have wrought 
To Grecian excellence the breathing stone, 
Or each pure grace of Raphael's pencil caught, 
Leaving no record of its power, is gone ! 
While thou hast fondly sought, on distant coast, 
Gems far less rich than those, thus precious, and 
thus lost. 

CI. 

Yet rise, O Land in all but Art alone, 
Bid the sole wreath that is not thine be won ! 
Fame dwells around thee — Genius is thine own ; 
Call his rich blooms to life — be Thou their Sun ! 
So, should dark ages o'er thy glory sweep. 
Should thine e'er be as now are Grecian plains, 
Nations unborn shall track thine own blue deep, 
To hail thy shore, to worship thy remains ; 
Thy mighty monuments with reverence trace, 
And cry, " This ancient soil hath nursed a glori- 
ous' race !" 



NOTES. 

Note 1, page 157, col. 1. 

Kound Doric Paestum's solitary fanes. 

" The Pfflstan rose, from its peculiar fragrance 
and the singularity of blowing twice a year, is of- 
ten mentioned by the classic poets. The wild rose, 
which now shoots up among the ruins, is of the 
small single damask kind, with a very high per- 
fume ; as a farmer assured me on the spot, it flow- 
ers both in spring and autumn." — Swinburne's 
Travels in the Two Sicilies. 

Note 2, page 157, col. 2. 

Swelled o'er that tide— the sons of battle sleep. 

In the naval engagements of the Greeks, " it 
was usual for the soldiers before the fight to sing a 
paean, or hymn, to Mars, and after the fight ano- 
ther to Apollo." — See Potter's Antiquities of 
Greece, vol. ii. p. 155. 

Note 3, page 158, col. 1. 

Her own bright East, thy son, Morea ! flies. 

The emigration of the natives of the Morea to 
different parts of Asia is thus mentioned by Cha- 
teaubriand in his " Itineraire de Paris a Jerusalem." 
— " Parvenu au dernier degre du malheur, le 
Moraite s'arrache de son pays, et va chercher en 
Asie un sort moins rigoureux. Vain espoir ! il 
retrouve des cadis et des pachas jusques dans lea 
sables de Jourdain et dans les deserts de Palmyre." 



MODERN GREECE. 



169 



Note 4, page 158, col. 1. 

Wilt thou receive the wanderer to thine arms. 

In the same work, Chateaubriand also relates 

his having met with several Greek emigrants who 

had established themselves in the woods of Florida. 

Note 5, page 158, col. 2. 
And isles of flowers, bright-floating o'er the tide. 
" La grace est toujours unie a la magnificence 
dans Ics scenes de la nature : et tandis que le cou- 
rant du milieu entraine vers la mer les cadavres 
des pins et des chenes, on voit sur les deux courans 
lateraux remonter le long des rivages des lies 
flottantes de Pistia et de Nenuphar, dont les roses 
jaunes s'eliivent comme de petits papillons." — 
Description of the banks of the Mississippi, Cha- 
teaubriand^ s " Atala." 

Note 6, page 159, col. 1, 
■ Wild, as when sung by bards of elder time. 

"Looking generally at- the narrowness and 
abruptness of this mountain-channel (Tempe) and 
contrasting it with the course of the Peneus, through 
the plains of Thcssaly, the imagination instantly 
recurs to the tradition that these plains were once 
covered with water for which some convulsion of 
nature had subsequently opened this narrow pas- 
sage. The term vale, in our language, is usually 
employed to describe scenery in which the predo- 
minant features are breadth, beauty, and repose. 
The reader has already perceived that the term is 
wholly inapplicable to the scenery at this spot, and 
that the phrase vale of Tempe is one that depends 

on poetic fiction. The real character of 

Tempe, though it perhaps be less beautiful, yet 
possesses more of magnificence than is implied in 

the epithet given to it. To those who 

have visited St. Vincent's rocks, below Bristol, 1 
can not convey a more sufficient idea of Tempe, 
than by saying that its scenery resembles, though 
on a much larger scale, that of the former place. 
The Peneus indeed, as it flows through the valley, 
is not greatly wider than the Avon ; and the chan- 
nel between the cliffs is equally contracted in its 
dimensions ; but these cliffs themselves are much 
loftier and more precipitous, and project their vast 
masses of rock with still more extraordinary abrupt- 
ness over the hollow beneath." — Holland's Travels 
in Albania, d^c. 

Note 7, page 159, col. 1. « 
Years, thaf have changed thy river's classic name. 
The modern name of the Peneus is Sal^ipria. 

Note 8, page 159, col. 1. 
Where the rich arbute's coral berries glow. 
" Towards the lower part of Tempe, these cliffs 
are peaked in a very singular manner, and form 



projecting angles on the vast perpendicular faces 
of the rock which they present towards the chasm; 
where the surface renders it possible, the summits 
and ledges of the rocks are for the most part cover- 
ed with small wood, chiefly oak, with the arbutus 
and other shrubs. On- the banks of the river, 
wherever there is a small interval between the wa- 
ter and the cliflls, it is covered by the rich and widely 
spreading foliage of the plane, the oak, and other 
forest trees, which in these situations have attained 
a remarkable size, and in various places extend 
their shadow far over the channel of the stream." 
" The rocks on each side the vale of 



Tempe are evidently the same ; what may be call- 
ed, I believe, a coarse bluish gray marl)le, with veins 
and portions of the rock, in which the marble is 
of finer quality." — Holland's Travels in Albania, 

Note 9, page 159, col. 2. 
Where Greece her councils held, her Pythian victors crowned. 
The Amphictyonic council was convened in 
spring and autumn at Delphi or Thermopylae, ani 
presided at the Pythian games, which were cele- 
brated at Delphi every fifth year. 

Note 10, page 159, col. 2. • 
Bloom the wild laurels o'er the warlike dead. 

" This spot (the field of Mantinea) on which so 
many brave men were laid to rest, js now covered 
with rosemary and laurels." — Pouqueville's Tra- 
vels in the Morea. 

Note 11, pa^e 160, col. 2. 
Where the dark upas taints th.e gale around. 
For the accounts of the upas or poison-tree of 
Java, now generally believed to be fabulous, or 
greatly exaggerated, see the notes to Darwin's Bo- 
tanic Garden. 

Note 12, page 160, col. 2. 
Its sculptured lions, richly wrought arcades. 
" The court most to be admired of the Alhambra 
is that called the court of the Lions ; it is orna- 
mented with sixty elegant pillars of an architec- 
ture which bears not the least resemblance to any 
of the known orders, and might be called the Ara- 
bian order. But its principal ornament, 

and that from which it tuok its name, is an ala- 
baster cup six feet in diameter, supported by twelve 
lions, which is said to have been made in imitation 
of the Brazen Sea of Solomon's temple." — Hour- 
goanne's Travels in Spain. 

Note 13, page 160, col. 2. 
Bright as that Pleiad sphered in Mecca's fane. 
" Sept des plus fameux parmi les anciens poetes 
Arabiques, sont designes par les ccrivains oricn- 



170 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



taux sous le nom de Ple'iade Arabique, et leurs 
ouvrages etaient suspendus autour de la Caaba, ou 
Mosque de la Mecque." — Sismondi. Litterature 
du Midi. 

Note 14, page 160, col. 2. 

And thou, O lasl and noblest Constantine ! 

" The distress and foil of the last Constantine 

are more glorious than the long prosperity of the 

Byzantine Caesars." — Gibbon's Decline and Fall, 

tf-c. vol. xii. p. 226. 

Note 15, page 161, col. 1. 
The closing night of that imperial race ! 
See the description of the night previous to the 
taking of Constantinople by Mahomet II.— Gib- 
bon, vol. xii. p. 225. 

Note 16, page 161, col. 1. 

And the Seven Towers are scaled, and all is won and lost. 

" This building (the Castle of the Seven Tow- 
ers) is mentioned as early as the sixth century of 
the Christian era, as a spot which contributed to 
the defence of Constantinople, and it was the prin- 
cipal bulwark of the town on the coast of the Pro- 
pontis, in t-helast periods of the empire." — Poiique- 
ville^s Travels in the Morea. 

Note 17, page 161, col. 1. 
Preserved inviolate their awful fane. 
See the account from Herodotus of the superna- 
tural defence of Delphi.— MiV/orcZ's Greece, vol. i. 
p. 396, 7 

Note 18, page 161, col. 2. 
Who from the dead at Marathon arose. 
" In succeeding ages the Athenians honoured 
Theseus as a demi-god, induced to it as well by 
other reasons, as because, when they were fighting 
the Medes at Marathon, a considerable part of the 
army thought they saw the apparition of Theseus 
completely armed, and bearing down before them 
upon the Barbarians." — Langhorne's Plutarch, 
Life of Theseus. 

Note 19, page 161, col. 2. 
Or they whose forms, to Alaric's awe-struck eye. 
" From Thermopylae to Sparta, the leader of the 
Goths ( Alaric) pursued his victorious march with- 
out encountering any mortal antagonist, but one 
of the advocates of expiring paganism has confi- 
fidently asserted, that the walls of Athens were 
guarded by the goddess Minerva, with her formi- 
dable aegis, and by the angry phantom of Achilles, 
and that the conqueror was dismayed by the pre- 
sence of the hostile deities of Greece." — Gibbon's 
Decline and Fall, <^c. vol. v. p. 183. 



Note 20, page J 61, col. 2. 
Ye slept, oh heroes ! chief ones of the earth. 
" Even all the chief ones of the earth.'' — Isaiah 
14th chapter. 

Note 21, page 161, col. 2. 
Perished the conquering weapons of your war. 
" How are the mighty f;illen, and the weapons, 
of war perished !" — Samuel, 2d book, 1st chap. 

Note 22, page 162, col. 2. 

O'er Suli's frowning rocks she paused awhile. 

For several interesting particulars relative to the 
Suliote warfare with Ali Pasha, see Holland's 
Travels in Albania. 

Note 23, page 162, col. 2. 
Then on the cliff the frantic motlier stood. 
"It is related as an authentic story, thai, a group 
of Suliote women assembled on one of the preci- 
pices adjoining the modern seraglio, and threw 
their infants into the chasm below, that they, 
might not become the slaves of the enemy." — Hol- 
land's Travels, tf-c. 

Note 24, page 162, col. 2. 
To lend their fall a mournful majesty. 

The ruins of Sparta, near the modern town of 
Mistra, are very inconsiderable, and only sufficient 
to mark the site of the ancient city. The scenery 
around them is described by travellers as very 
striking. 

Note 25, page 163, col. 1. 
How died the brave, obedient to tiiy lavFS. 
The inscription composed by Simonides for the 
Spartan monument in the pass of Thermopylae 
has been thus translated — " Stranger, go tell the 
Lacedemonians that we have obeyed their laws, 
and that we lie here." 

Note 26, page 163, col. 2. 
There tlie rose-laurels still in beauty wave. 
"In the Eurotas I observed abundance of those 
famous reeds which were known in the earliest 
ages, and all the rivers and marshes of Greece aje 
replete with rose-laurels, while the springs and 
rivulets axe covered with lilies, tuberoses, hya- 
cinths, and narcissus orientalis." — Pouqucville's 
Trav^ in the Morea. 

Note 27, page 163, col. 2. 
Tlie suppliant's hand its holy branches bore. 
It was usual for suppliants to carry an olive 
branch bound with wool. 



MODERN GREECE. 



171 



Note 28, page 163, col. 2. 
Its fruitful groves arise, revered and hallowed still. 
The olive, according to Pouqueville, is still re- 
garded with veneration by the people of the Morea. 

Note 29, page 163, col. 2. 

Quenched is tlie torch of Ceres— all around. 
It was customary at Eleusis on the fifth day of 
the festival, foi" men and women to run about with 
torches in their hands, and also to dedicate torches 
to Ceres, and to contend who should present the 
largest. This was done in memory of the journey 
of Ceres in search of Proserpine, during which 
she was lighted by a torch kindled in the flames 
of Etna. — Potter's Antiquities of Greece, vol. i. 
p. 392. 

Note 30, page 164, col. 1. 
Fount of Oblivion ! in thy gushing wave. 

The Fountains of Oblivion and Memory, with 
the Hercynian fountain, are still to be seen 
amongst the rocks near Livadia, though the situa- 
tion of the cave of Trophonius in their vicinity 
can not be exactly ascertained. — See Holland's 
Travels. 

Note 31, page 164, col. 2. 
Fair Elis, o'er thy consecrated valea. 
Elis was anciently a sacred territory, its inha- 
bitants being considered as consecrated to the ser- 
vice of Jupiter. All armies marching through it 
delivered up their weapons, and received them 
again when they had passed its boundary. 

Note 32, page 164, col. 2. 
And smile the longest in its lingering ray. 
"We are assured by Thucydides that Attica 
was the province of Greece in which population 
first became settled, and where the earliest pro- 
gres.s was made toward civilization." — Mitford's 
Greece, vol. i. p. 35. 

Note 33, page 165, col. 1. ^ 

Raised by the magic of Morgana's .wand. 

Fata Morgana. This remarkable aerial phe- 
nomenon, which ifi thought by the lower orders 
of Sicilians to be the work of a fairy, is thus de- 
scribed by father Angelucci, whose account is 
quoted by Swinburne. 

" On the 15th August, 1643, I was surprised, 
as I stood at my window, with a most wonderful 
spectacle : the sea that washes the Sicilian shore 
swelled up, and became, for ten miles in length, 
like a chain of dark mountains, while the waters 
near our Calabrian coast grew quite smooth, and 
in an instant appeared like one clear polished mir- 
ror. On this glass was depicted, in chiaro scuro, 
a string of several thousands of pilasters ail equal 



in height, distance, and degrees of light and shade. 
In a moment they bent into arcades, like Roman 
aqueducts. A long cornice was next formed at 
the top. and above if- rose innumerable castles, all 
perfectly alike; these again changed into towers, 
which were shortly after lost in colonnades, then 
windows, and at list ended in pines, cypresses and 
other trees.'" — Swinburne's Travels in the Two 
Sicilies 

Note 34, page 165, col. 2. 
Holy the amaranth strewed upon their grave. 
All sorts of purple and white flowers were sup- 
posed by the Greeks to be acceptable to the dead, 
and used in adorning tombs; as amaranth, with 
which the Thessalians decorated the tomb of 
Achilles. — Potter's Antiquities of Greece, vol. ii. 
p. 232. 

Note 35, page 165, col. 2. 
Hark ! Pericles records their honoured names. 
Pericles, on his return to Athens after the re- 
duction of Sanios, celebrated in a splendid manner 
the obsequies of his countrymen who fell in that 
war, and pronounced, himself, the funeral oration 
usual on such occasions. This gained him great 
applause ; and when he came down from the ros- 
trum, the women paid their respects to him, and 
presented him witli crowns and chaplcts, like a 
champion just returned victorious from the lists. — 
Langhorne's Plutarch, Life of Pericles. 

Note 36, page 166^ col. 1. 
IMinerva's veil is rent — her image gone. 
The peplus, which is supposed to have been 
suspended as an awning over the statue of Minerva, 
in the Parthenon, was a principal ornament of the 
Panathenaic festival; it was embroidered with 
various colours, representing the baltle of the Gods 
and Titans, and the exjiloits of Athenian herofes. 
When the festival was celebrated, the peplus was 
brought from the Acropolis, and suspended as a 
sail to the vessel, which on that day was con- 
ducted through the Ceramicus and principal streets 
of Athens, till it had made the circuit of the Acro- 
polis. The peplus was then carried to the Par- 
thenon, and consecrated to Minerva. — See Chan- 
dler's Travels, Stewart's Athens, tf-c. 

Note 37, page 166, col. 1. 
Though with rich gold and massy sculpture graced. 
The gilding amidst the ruins of Persepolis is 
stiil, according to Winckelmann, in high pre- 
servation. 

Note 38, page 167, col. 1. 
There in each wreck impcri.shably glows. 
" In the most broken fragment the same great 
principle of life can be proved to exist, as in the 



172 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



most perfect figure," is one of the observations of 
Mr. Haydqp on the Elgin Marbles. 

Note 39, page 167, col. 3. 
Art unobirusive there ennobles form. 
"Everything here breathes life, with a veracity, 
with an exquisite knowledge of art, but without 
the least ostentation or parade of it, which is con- 
cealed by consummate and masterly skill." — Cano- 
ra's Letter to the Earl of Elgin. 

Note 40, page 167, col. 2. 
There e'ea the steed with hold expression warm. 
Dr. West, after expressing his admiration of the 
horse's head in Loyd Elgin's collection of Athenian 
sculpture, thus proceeds: "We feel the same 
when we view the young equestrian Athenians, 
and in observing them we are insensibly carried 
on with the impression, that they and their horses 
actually existed, as we see them, at the instant 
when they were converted into marble." — f Vest's 
Second Letter to Lord Elgin. 

Note 41, page 167, col. 3. 
And art hath won a world in models pure as thine. 
Mr. Flaxman thinks that sculpture has very 
greatly improved withyi these last twenty years, 
and that his opinion is not singular, because works 
of such prime importance as the Elgin marbles 
could not remain in any country without a conse- 
quent improvement of the public taste, and the 
talents of the artist. — See the Evidence given in 
reply to interrogatories Jrom the Committee on 
the Elgin Marbles. 



Note 42, page 168, col. 1. 

They once were gods and heroes — and beheld. 

The Theseus and Ilissus, which are considered 
by Sir T. Lawrence, Mr. Westmacott, and other 
distinguished artists, to be of a higher class than 
the Appollo Bclvjdere; " because there is in them 
an union of very grand form with a more true and 
natural expression of the effect of action upon the 
human frame, than there is in the Apollo, or any 
of the other more celebrated statues." — See the 
Evidence, dj'c. 

Note 43, page 168, col. 1. 
What British Angelo may rise to fame, 
" Let us suppose a young man at this time in 
London, endowed with powers such as enabled 
Michael Angelo to advance the arts, as he did, by 
the aid of one mutilated specimen of Grecian ex- 
cellence in sculpture ; to what an eminence might 
not such a genius carry art, by the opportunity of 
studying those sculptures in the aggregate, which 
adorned the temple of Minerva at . Athens V — 
Wesfs Second Letter to Lord Elgin. 

Note 44, page 168, col. 1. 
Genius and taste diffuse a partial ray. 

In allusion to the theories of Du Bos, Winckel- 
mann, Montesquieu, &c. with regard to the in- 
herent obstacles in the climate of England to the 
progress of genius and the arts. — See Hoare's 
Epochs of the Arts, page 84, 5. 



!Pattinoov» 



A PRIZE POEM. 



Come bright Improvement, on the car of Time, 
And rule the spacious world from clime to clime ! 
Thy handmaid Arts shall every wild explore, 
Trace every wave, and culture every shore. — Campbell. 

May ne'er 
That true succession fail of English hearts,. 
That can perceive, not less than heretofore, 
Our ancestors did feelingly perceive, 

the charm 

Of pious sentiment, xhAused afar. 

And human charity, and social love. — Wordsworth. 



* • 



Amidst the peopled and the regal Isle, 
Whose vales, rejoicing ia their beauty, smile; 
Whose cities, fearless of the spoiler, tower. 
And send on every breeze a voice of power ; 
Hath desolation reared herself a throne, 
And marked a pathless region for her own 1 
Yes ! though thy turf no stain of carnage wore, 
When bled the noble hearts of many a shore, 



Though not a hostile step thy heath-flowers bent, 
When empires tottered, and the earth was rent j 
Yet lone, as if some trampler of mankind 
Had stilled life's busy murmurs on the wind, 
And, flushed with power, in daring Pride's excess, 
Stamped on thy soil the curse of barrenness ; 
For thee in vain descend the dews of heaven, 
In vain the sunbeam and the shower are given j 



DARTMOOR. 



1-73 



Wild Dartmoor ! thou that, 'midst thy mountains 

rude, 
Hast robpd thyself with haughty solitude, 
As a dark cloud on Summer's clear-blue sky, 
A mourner, circled with festivity ! 
For all beyond is life ! — the rolling sea. 
The rush, the sw£ll, whose echoes reach not thee. 
Yet who shall find a scene so wild and bare, 
But man has left his lingering traces there? 
E'en on mysterious Afric's boundless plains. 
Where noon, with attributes of midnight reigns. 
In gloom and silence, fearfully profound, 
As of a world unwaked to soul or sound ; 
Though the sad wanderer of the burning zone 
Feels, as amidst infinity, alone. 
And nought of life be near ; his camel's tread 
Is o'er the prostrate cities of the dead ! 
Some column, reared by long-forgotten hands, 
Just lilts its head above the billowy sands — 
Some mouldering shrine still consecrates the 

scene. 
And tells that Glory's footstep there hath been. 
There hath the spirit of tlie mighty passed. 
Not without record; though the desert-blast, 
Borne on the wings of Time, hath swept away 
The proud creations, reared to brave decay. 
But thou, lone region! whose unnoticed name 
No lofty deeds have mingled with their fame, 
Who shall unfold thine annals 1 Who shall tell 
If on thy soil the sons of heroes fell. 
In those far ages, which have left no trace. 
No sunbeam on the pathway of their race 1 
Though, haply, in the unrecorded days 
Of kings and chiefs, who passed without their 

praise. 
Thou might'st have reared the valiant and the 

free, 
In history's page there is no tale of thee. — 

Yet hast thcu thy memorials. On the wild 
Still rise the cairns of yore, all rudely piled, (1) 
But hallowed by that instinct, which reveres 
Things fraught with characters of elder years. 
And such are these. Long centuries are flown, 
Bowed many a crest and shattered many a throne, 
Mingling the urn, the trophy, and the bust, 
With that they hide — their shrined and treasured 

dust : 
Men traverse Alps and Oceans, to behold 
Earth's glorious works fast mingling with her 

mould : 
But still these nameless clironicles of death, 
'Midst the deep silence of the unpeopled heath, 
Stand in primeval artlessness, and wear 
The same sepulcliral mien, and almost share 
Th' eternity of nature, with the forms 
Of the crowned hills beyond, the dwellings of the 

storms. 
Yet, what avails it, if each moss-grown heap 
Sti'l on the waste it." bnely vigils keep, 
•21 



Guarding the dust which slumbers well beneath 
(Nor needs such care) from each cold season's 

breath? 
Where is the voice to tell their tale who rest, 
Thus rudely pillowed, on the dessert's breast? 
Doth the sword sleep beside them 1 Hath there been 
A sound of battle 'midst the silent scene. 
Where now the flocks rejwse? Did the .scythed car 
Here reap its harvest in the ranks of war? 
And rise the.se piles in memory of the slain, 
And the red combat of the mountain-plain? 

It may be thus : the vestiges of strife, 
Around yet lingering, mark the stepjs of life, 
And the rude arrow's barb remains to tell(2) 
How by its stroke jjerchance the mighty fell, 
To be forgotten. Vain the warrior's pride. 
The chieftain's power — they had no bard, and 

died.(3) 
But other scenes, from their untroubled sphere, 
The eternal stars of night have witnessed here. 
There stands an altar of unsculptured stone,(4) 
Far on the moor, a thing of ages gone, 
Projiped on iis granite pillars, whence the rains, 
And pure brigiit dews, have laved the crimson 

stains 
Left by dark rites of blood ; for here, of yore, 
When the bleak waste a robe of forest wore, 
And many a crested oak, which now lies low, 
Waved its wild wreath of sacred misletoe ; 
Plere. at dead midnight, through the haunted shade, 
On Druid-harps the quivering moon-beam jJayed, 
And spells were breathed, that filled the deepening 

gloom • 

With the pale, shadowy people of the tomb. 
Or, haply, torches waving througii the night. 
Bade the red cairn-fires blaze from every height,(5) 
Like battle-signals, whose unearthly gleams 
Threw o'er the desert's hundred hills and streams, 
A savage grandeur ; while the starry skies 
Rung with the peal of mystic harmonies. 
As the loud harp its deep-toned hymns sent forth, 
To the storm-ruling powers, the war-gods of the 

North. 
But wilder sounds were there : th' imploring cry, 
That woke the forest's echo in reply. 
But not the heart's ! — Unmoved, the wizard train 
Stood round their human victim, and in vain 
His prayer for mercy rose ; in v;.in his glance 
Looked up, appealing to the blue expanse, 
Where, in their calm, immortal beauty, shone 
Heaven's cloudless orbs. With faiht and fainter 

moan, 
Bound on the shrine of sacrifice he lay, 
Till, drop by drop, life's current ebbed away; 
Till rock and turf grew deeply, darkly red, 
And the pale moon gleamed paler on the dead. 
Have such things been, ^d here ? — where stillness 

dwells 
'Midst the rude barrows and the m«orland swells, 



174 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



Thus undisturbed 1— Oh! long the gulf of time 
Hath closed in darkness o'er those days of crime, 
And earth no vestige of their path retains, 
Save such as these, which strew^ her lonehest plains 
With records of man's conflicts and his doom. 
His spirit and his dust— the altar and the tomb. 

But ages rolled away : and England stood, 
With her proud banner streaming o'er the flood, 
And with a lofty calmness in her eye, 
And regal in collected majesty, 
To breast the storm of battle. Every breeze 
Bore sounds of triumph o'er her own blue seas ; 
And other lands, redeemed and joyous, drank 
The life blood of her heroes, as they sank 
On the red fields they won ; whose wild flowers 

wave 
Now, in luxuriant beauty, o'er their grave. 

'T was then the captives of Britannia's war,(6) 
Here for their lovely southern climes afar, 
In bondage pined : the spell-deluded throng, 
Dragged at Ambition's chariot-wheels so long, 
To die, — because a despot could not clasp 
A sceptre, fitted to his boundless grasp ! 

Yes ! they whose march had rocked the ancient 

thrones 
And temples of the world ; the deepening tones 
Of whose advancing trumpet, from repose 
Had startled nations, wakening to their woes, 
Were prisoners here. — And there were some whose 

dreams 
Were of sweet homes, by chainless mountain- 
streams. 
And of the vine-clad hills, and many a strain, 
And festal melody of Loire or Seine, 
And of those mothers, who had watched and wept, 
When on the field the unsheltered conscript slept. 
Bathed with the midnight dews. And some were 

there ; 
Of sterner spirits, hardened by despair ; 
Who in their dark imaginings, again 
Fired the rich palace and the stately fane, 
Drank in the victim's shriek, as music's breath, 
And lived o'er scenes, the festivals of death ! 
And there was mirth too!— strange and savage 

mirth. 
More fearful far than all the woes of earth ! 
The laughter of cold hearts, and scofis that spring 
From minds for which there is no sacred thing. 
And transient bursts of fierce, exulting glee, — 
The lightning's flash upon its blasted tree ! 

But still, howe'er the soul's disguise were worn. 
If, from wild revelry, or haughty scorn. 
Or buoyant hope, it won an outward show. 
Slight was the mask, and all beneath it — wo. 

Yet was this all 1 — amidst the dungeon-gloom, 
The void, the stillness, of the captive's doom, 
Were there no deeper thoughts 1 — And that dark 

power, 
To whom guilt owes one late, but dreadful hour, 



The mighty debt through years of crime delayed, 
But, as the grave's, inevitably paid ; 
Came he not thither, in his burning force, 
The lord, the tamer of dark souls — Remorsel 

Yes ! as the night calls forth from sea and sky, 
From breeze and wood, a solemn harmony. 
Lost, when the swift, triumphant wheels of day, 
In light and sound, are hurrying on their way: 
Thus, from the deep recesses of the heart, 
The voice which sleeps, but never dies, might start. 
Called up by solitude, each nerve to thrill. 
With accents heard not, save when all is still ! 

The voice, inaudible, when Havoc's train 
Crushed the red vintage of devoted Spain; 
Mute, when sierras to the war-whoop rung,' 
And the broad light of conflagration sprung 
From the South's marble cities ; — hushed, 'midst 

cries 
That told the Heavens of mortal agonies ; 
But gathering silent strength, to wake at last. 
In the concentred thunders of the past ! 

And there, perchance, some long-bewildered 
mind. 
Torn from its lowly sphere, its path confined 
Of village-duties, in the alpine glen, 
Where nature cast its lot, 'midst peasant-men ; 
Drawn to that vortex, whose fierce ruler blent 
The earthquake-power of each wild element, 
To lend the tide which bore his throne on high, 
One impulse more of desperate energy ; 
Might, when the billow's awful rush was o'er, 
Which tossed its wreck upon the storm-beat 

shore. 
Won from its wanderings past, by suffering tried. 
Searched by remorse, by anguish purified. 
Have fixed at length its troubled hopes and fears, 
On the far world, seen brightest through our tears, 
And in that hour of triumph or despair. 
Whose secrets all must learn — but none declare. 
When, of the things to come, a deeper sense, 
Fills the dim eye of trembling penitence, 
Have turned to him, whose bow is in the cloud, 
Around life's limits gathering, as a shroud ; — 
The fearful mysteries of the heart who knows. 
And, by the tempest, calls it to repose ! 

Who visited that death-bed 1— Who can tell 
Its brief, sad tale, on which the soul might dwell, 
And learn immortal lessons'? — Who beheld 
The struggling hope, by shame, by doubt repelled — 
The agony of prayer — the bursting tears — 
The dark remembrances of guilty years. 
Crowding upon the spirit in their might ?— 
He, through the storm who looked, and there was 
light! 

That scene is closed!— that wild, tumultuous 
breast. 
With all its pangs and passions, is at rest ! 
He too is fallen, the master-power of strife, 
Who woke those passions to delirious life ; 



DARTMOOR. 



175 



And days, prepared a brighter course to run, 
Unfold their buoyant pinions to the sun ! 

It is a glorious hour when Spring goes forth, 
O'er the bleak mountains of the shadowy North, 
And with one radiant glance, one magic breath. 
Wakes all things lovely from the sleep of death ; 
While the glad voices of a thousand streams, 
Bursting their bondage, triumph in her beams ! 

But Peace hath nobler changes ! O'er the mind. 
The warm and living spirit of mankind, 
Her influence breathes, and bids the blighted heart, 
To life and hope from desolation start ! 
She, with a look, dissolves the captive's chain, 
Peopling with beauty widowed homes again ; 
Around the mother, in her closing years. 
Gathering her sons once more, and from the tears 
Of the dim past, but winning purer light. 
To make the present more serenely bright. 

Nor rests that influence here. From clime to 
clime. 
In silence gliding with the stream of time. 
Still doth it spread, borne onwards, as a breeze 
With healing on its wings, o'er isles and seas : 
And, as heaven's breath called forth, with genial 

power, 
From the dry wand, the almond's living flower; 
So doth its deep-felt charm in secret move 
The coldest heart to gentle deeds of love ; 
While round its pathway nature softly glows. 
And the wide desert blossoms as the rose. 

Yes ! let the waste lift up the exulting voice ! 
Let the far-echoing solitudes rejoice ! 
And thou, lone moor I where no blithe reaper's song 
E'er lightly sped the summer-hours along. 
Bid thy wild rivers, from each mountain source, 
Rushing in joy, make music on their course ! 
Thou, whose sole records of existence mark 
The scene of barbarous rites, in ages dark, 
And of some nameless combat ; Hope's bright eye 
Beams o'er thee in the light of prophecy 1 
Yet shalt thou smile, by busy culture drest. 
And the rich harvest wave upon thy breast ! 
Yet shall thy cottage-smoke, at dewy morn. 
Rise, in blue wreaths, above the flowering thorn. 
And, 'midst thy hamlet-shades, the embosomed spire 
Catch from deep-kindhng heavens their earliest fire. 

Thee too that hour shall bless, the balmy close 
Of labour's day, the herald of repose, 
Which gathers hearts in peace ; while social mirth 
Basks in the blaze of each free village-hearth ; 
While peasant-songs are on the joyous gales. 
And merry England's voice floats up' from all her 

vales. 
Yet are there sweeter sounds ; and thou shalt hear 
Such as to Heaven's immortal host are dear. 
Oh ! if there still be melody on earth, 
Worthy the sacred bowers where man drew birth, 
When angel-steps their paths rejoicing trod, 
And the air trembled with the breath of God ; 



It lives in those soft accents, to the sky(7) 

Borne from the lips of stainless infancy, 

When holy strains, from life's pure fount which 

sprung. 
Breathed with deep reverence, falter on its tongue. 

And such shall be thy music when the cells, 
Where guilt, the child of hopeless misery, dwells, 
(And, to wild strength by desperation wrought. 
In silence broods o'er many a fearful thought,) 
Resound to pity's voice ; and childhood thence, 
Ere the cold blight hath reached its innocence, 
Ere that soft rose-bloom of the soul be fled. 
Which vice but breathes on, and its hues are dead, 
Shall at the call press forward, to be made 
A glorious oft'ering, meet for him, who said, 
" Mercy not sacrifice !" and when, of old. 
Clouds of rich incense from his altars rolled. 
Dispersed the smoke of perfumes, and laid bare 
The heart's deep folds, to read its homage there ! 

When some crowned conqueror, o'er a trampled 
world. 
His banner, shadowing nations, hath unfurled, 
And, like those visitations which deform 
Nature for centuries, hath made the storm 
His pathway to Dominion's lonely sphere. 
Silence behind, — before him, flight and fear ; 
When kingdoms rock beneath his rushing wheels, 
Till each far isle the mighty impulse feels. 
And earth is moulded .but by one proud will, 
And sceptred realms wear fetters, and are still; 
Shall the free soul of song bow down to pay 
The earthquake homage on its baleful way "? 
Shall the glad harp send up exalting strains. 
O'er burning cities and forsaken plains 1 
And shall no harmony of softer close, 
Attend the stream of mercy as it flows, 
And, mingling with the music of its wave. 
Bless the green shores its gentle currents lave ? 

Oh ! there are loftier themes, for him, whose eyes 
Have searched the depths of life's realities. 
Than the red battle, or the trophied car. 
Wheeling the monarch-victor fast and far; 
There are more noble strains from those which 

swell 
The triumphs. Ruins may suflSce to tell ! 

Ye Prophet-bards, who sat in elder days 
Beneath the palms of Judah ! Ye, whose lays 
With torrent rapture, from their source on high. 
Burst in the strength of immortality ! 
Oh ! not alone, those haunted groves among. 
Of conquering hosts, of empires crushed, ye sung, 
But of that Spirit, destined to explore 
With the bright day-spring every distant shore, 
To dry the tear, to bind the broken reed, 
To make the home of peace in hearts that bleed ; 
With beams of hope to pierce the dungeon's gloom. 
And pour eternal starlight o'er the tomb! 

And blessed and hallowed be its haunts! for there 
Hath man's high soul been rescued from despair 1 — 



176 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



There hath the immortal spark for Heaven been 

nursed, — 
There from the rock the springs of Ufe have burst, 
Q-uenchless and pure ! and holy thoughts, that rise. 
Warm from the source of human sympathies, — 
Where'er its path of radiance may be traced, 
Shall find their temple in the silent waste. 



NOTES. 

Note 1, page 173, col. 1. 
Still rise the cairns of yore, all rudely piled. 
In some parts of Dartmoor the surface is thickly 
strewed with stones, which, in many instances, ap- 
pear to have been collected into piles, on the tops 
of prominent hillocks, as if in imitation of the na- 
tural Tors. The Stone-barrows of Dartmoor re- 
semble the Cairns of the Cheviot and Grampian 
hills, and those in Cornwall. — See Cooke's Topo- 
graphical Survey of Devonshire. 

Note 2, page 173, col. 2. 
And the rude arrow's barb remains to tell. 
Flint arrow-heads have occasionally been found 
upon Dartmoor. 

Note 3, page 173, col. 2. 
The chieftain's power— they had no bard, and died. 
Vixere fortes ante Agamemnona 
Multi : Sed omnes illachrymabiles 



Urgentur, ignotique longa 
Nocte, carent quia vate sacro. — Horace. 
" They had no Poet, and they died." 

Pope's Translation. 

Note 4, page 173, col. 2. 
There stands an altar of unsculptured stone. 
On the east of Dartmoor, are some Druidical re- 
mains, one of which is a Cromlech, whose three 
rough pillars of granite support a ponderous table- 
stone, and form a kind of large, irregular tripod. 

Note 5, page 173, col. 2. 
Bade the red cairn-flres blaze from every height. 
In some of the Druid festivals, fires were light- 
ed on all the cairns and eminences around, by 
priests, carrying sacred torches. All the house- 
hold fires were previously extinguished, and those 
who were thought worthy of such a privilege, were 
allowed to relight them with a flaming brand, kin- 
dled at the consecrated cairn-fire. 

Note 6, page 174, col. 1, 
'T was then the captives of Britannia's war. 
The French prisoners, taken in the wars with 
Napoleon, were confined in a depot on Dartmoor. 

Note 7, page 175, col. 2. 

It lives in those soft accents, to the sky. 

In allusion to a plan for the erection of a great 
national school-house on Dartmoor, where it was 
proposed to educate the children of convicts. 



ON THE BANKS OF THE CARRON. 

A PRIZE POEM. 



The Scottish historians describe their hero, 
after the battle of Falkirk, by his military talents 
and presence of mind, preserving the troops under 
his own command, and retreating leisurely and in 
good order, along the banks of the little river 
Carron, which protected him from the enemy. 
They add, that Robert Bruce* appeared on the 
opposite side of the river, and soon distinguishing 
the majestic figure of Wallace, he called out to 
him, and desired a conference. They represent 
the Scottish hero as seizing this opportunity to 
awaken the feelings of patriotism in the youthful 
mind of Bruce ; as appealing to him in behalf of 



* Not Kobert Bruce, afterwards k^ng of Scotland, but his 
father. 



his country, and describing her oppressed state, 
as the consequence of being deserted by those 
whom nature and fortune had pointed out, as best 
fitted by birth and character to maintain the na- 
tional independence. The enthusiasm of the 
speaker is said to have made a deep impression on 
Bruce, who from that time repented of his en- 
gagements with Edward, and secretly determined 
to seize the first opportunity of aiding the cause 
of his native country. 



The morn rose bright on scenes renowned, 
Wild Caledonia's classic ground. 
Where the bold sons of other days 
Won their high fame in Ossian's lavs, 



TKi;. MEETING OP WALLACE AND BRUCE. 



177 



And fell — l)nt not till Carrun's tide 

With Roman blood was darkly dyed. 

— The morn rose bright, and iieard the cry 

Sent by exulting hosts on high, 

And saw the white-cross banner float 

(While rang each clansman's gathering note) 

O'er the dark plumes and serried spears 

Of Scotland's daring mountaineers, 

As all elate with hope, they stood 

To buy their freedom with their blood. 

The sunset shone, to guide the flying, 
And beam a farewell to the dying! 
The summer-moon on Falkirk's field, 
Streams upon eyes in slumber sealed ; 
Deep slumber, not to pass away, 
When breaks another morning's ray, 
Nor vanish when the trumj)et's voice 
Bids ardent hearts again rejoice : 
What sunbeam's glow, what clarion's breath 
May chase the still, cold, sleep of Death 1 
Shrouded in Scotland's blood-stained plaid, 
Low are her mountain- warriors laid ; 
They fell, on that proud soil, whose mould 
Was blent with heroes' dust of old, - 
And guarded by the free and brave, 
Yielded the Roman but a grave ! 
Nobly they fell — yet with them died 
The warrior's hope, the leader's pride. 
Vainly they fell — that martyr host — 
All, save the land's high soul, is lost. 
Blest are the slain! they cahnly sleep, 
Nor see their bleeding country weep; 
The shouts, of England's triumph telling. 
Reach not their dark and silent dwelling ; 
And those, surviving to bequeath 
Their sons the choice of chains or death. 
May give the slumberer's lowly bier. 
An envying glance, — but not a tear. 
But thou, the fearless and the free, 
Devoted Knight of Ellerslie ! 
No vassal-spirit, formed to bow 
When storms are gathering, clouds thy brow. 
No shade of fear, or weak despair, 
Blends with indignant sorrow there. 
The ray which streams on yon red field. 
O'er Scotland's cloven helm and shield, 
Glitters not there alone, to shed 
Its cloudless beauty o'er the dead. 
But, where smooth Carron's rippling wave, 
Flows near that death-bed of the brave, 
Illuming all the midnight scene, 
Sleeps brightly on thy lofty mien. 

But other beams, O Patriot! shine 
In each commanding glance of thine, 
And other light hath filled thine eye, 
With inspiration's majesty. 
Caught from the immortal flame divine 
Which makes thine inmost heart a shrine! 



Thy voice a Prophet's tone hath won''^ 
The grandeur Freedom lends her soijp 
Thy bearing, a resistless power, 
The ruling genius of the hour; 
And he, yon Chief, with mien of pride, 
Whom Carron's waves from thee divide. 
Whose haughty gesture fain would seek 
To veil the thoughts that blanch his cheek, 
Feels his reluctant mind controlled 
By thine, of more heroic mould ; 
Though, struggling all in vain to war 
With that high mind's ascendant star. 
He, with a conqueror's scornful eye, 
Would mock the name of Liberty. 

— Heard ye the Patriot's awful voice"? 
"Proud Victor! in thy fame rejoice! 
Hast thou not seen thy brethren slain, 
The harvest of thy battle-plain, t 

And bathed thy sword in blood, whose spot 
Eternity shall cancel noti 
Rejoice ! — with sounds of wild lament, 
O'er her dark heaths and mountains sent, 
With dying moan and dirge's wail. 
Thy ravaged country bids thee hail ! 
Rejoice! — while yet exulting cries 
From England's conquering host arise 
And strains of choral triumph tell, 
Her royal Slave hath fought too well. 
Oh ! dark the clouds of wo that rest 
Brooding o'er Scotland's mountain-crest ; 
Her shield is cleft, her banner torn. 
O'er martyred chiefs her daughters mourn ; 
And not a breeze, but wafts the sound 
Of wailing through the land around. 
Yet deem not thou, till life depart, 
High hope shall leave the patriot's heart, 
Or courage, to the storm inured, 
Or stern resolve, by woes matured. 
Oppose, to Fate's severest hour. 
Less than unconquerable power. 
No! though the orbs of h(>aven expire, 
Thine, Freedom! is a quenchless fire! 
And wo to him whose might would dare 
The energies of Ihy despair! 
No! — when thy ciiain, O Bruce! is cast 
O'er thy land's chartered mountain-blast. 
Then in my yielding soul shall die 
The glorious faith of Liberty!" 

"Wild hopes! o'er dreamer's mind that rise. 
With haughty laugh, the Conqueror cries, 
(Yet his dark cheek is flushed with shame, 
And his eye filled with troubled flame;) 
'Vain, brief illusions! doomed to fly 
England's red path of victory ! 
Is not her sword unmatched in might"? 
Her course, a torrent in the fight 1 
The terror of her name gone forth 
Wide o'er the regions of the North 1 



178 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



Far hence *■' lidst other heaths and snows 
Must FreeZlSm's footstep now repose. 
And thou, in lofty dreams elate, 
Enthuf^iast! strive no more with Fate! 
'T is vain — the land is lost and won — 
Sheathed be the sword, its task is done. 
Where are the Chiefs who stood with thee, 
First in the battles of the free 1 
The firm in heart; in spirit high"? 
— They sought yon fatal field to die. 
Each step of Edward's conquering host 
Hath left a grave on Scotland's coast." 

"Vassal of England! yes, a grave. 
Where sleep the faithful and the brave; 
And who the glory would resign 
Of death like theirs, for life like thine 1 
They slumber — and the stranger's tread 
May spurn thy country's noble dead; 
Yet, on the land they loved so well. 
Still shall their burning spirit dwell. 
Their deeds shall hallow minstrel's theme, 
Their image rise on warrior's dream. 
Their names be inspiration's breath. 
Kindling high hope, and scorn of death, 
Till bursts, immortal from the tomb, 
The flame that shall avenge their doom! 
This is no land for chains — away ! 
O'er softer climes let tyrants sway 1 
Think'st thou the mountain and the storm 
Their hardy sons for bondage form'? 
Doth our stern wintry blast instil 
Submission to a Despot's will"? 
— No ! we were cast in other mould 
Than theirs, by lawless power controlled. 
The nurture of our bitter sky 
Calls forth resisting energy. 
And the wild fastnesses are ours, 
The rocks with their eternal towers! 
The soul to struggle and to dare. 
Is mingled with our northern air. 
And dust beneath our soil is lying. 
Of those who died for fame undying. 
Tread'st thou that soil, and can it be 
No loftier thought is roused in thee 
Doth no high feeling proudly start 
From slumber in thine inmost heart ? 
No secret voice thy bosom thrill. 
For thine own Scotland pleading stilll 
Oh ! wake thee yet 1 indignant claim 
A nobler fate, a purer fame. 
And cast to earth thy fetters riven, 
And take thine offered crown from Heaven ! 
Wake ! in that high majestic lot, 
May the dark past be all forgot, 
And Scotland shall forgive the field, 
Where with her blood thy shame was sealed. 
E'en I,— though on that fatal plain 
Lies my heart's brother with the slain, 



Though, reft of his heroic worth. 

My spirit dwells alone on earth, 

And when all other grief is past. 

Must this be cherished to the last; — 

Will lead thy battles, guard thy throne, 

With faith unspotted as his own, 

Nor in thy noon of fame recall. 

Whose was the guilt that wrought his fall." 

Still dost thou hear in stern disdain 
Are Fredom's warning accents vaini 
No, royal Bruce! within thy breast 
Wakes each high thought, too long suppressed, 
And thy heart's noblest feelings live. 
Blent in that suppliant word — "Forgive! 
Forgive the wrongs to Scotland done ! 
Wallace! thy fairest palm is won; 
And kindhng at my country's shrine, 
My soul hath caught a spark of thine. 
Oh! deem not, in the proudest hour 
Of triumph and exulting power. 
Deem not the light of peace could find 
A home within my troubled mind. 
Conflicts by mortal eye unseen. 
Dark, silent, secret, there have been. 
Known but to Him, whose glance can trace 
Thought to its deepest dwelling-place. 
— 'T is past, and on my native shore 
I tread, a rebel son no more. 
Too blest, if yet my lot may be, 
In glory's path to follow thee; 
If tears, by late repentance poured, 
May lave the blood-stains from my sword." 

— Far other tears, O Wallace ! rise 
From thy heart's fountain to thine eyes, 
Bright, holy, and unchecked they spring, 
While thy voice falters, " Hail 1 my King! 
Be every wrong, by memory traced, 
In this full tide of joy effaced! 
Hail! and rejoice! thy race shall claim 
An heritage of deathless fame. 
And Scotland shall arise at length. 
Majestic in triumphant strength, 
An eagle of the rock, than won 
A way, through tempests, to the sun. 
Nor scorn the visions, wildly grand, 
The prophet-spirit of thy land! 
By torrrent wave, in desert blast, 
Those visions o'er my thoughts have passed, 
Where mountain-vapours darkly roll, 
That spirit hath possessed my soul. 
And shadowy forms have met mine eye. 
The beings of futurity; 
And a deep voice of years to be, 
Hath told that Scotland shall be free. 

"He comes! exult, thou Sire of Kings! 
From thee the Chief, the Avenger springs! 
Far o'er the land he comes to save. 
His bajiners in their glory wave. 



THE MEETING OF WALLACE AND BRUCE. 



179 



And Albyn's thousand harps awake 

On hill and heath, by stream and lake, 

To swell the strains tliat far around 

Bid the proud name of Bruce resound. 

And I — but wherefore now recall 

The whispered omens of my fall? 

They come not in mysterious gloom, 

— There is no bondage in the tomb ! 

O'er the soul's world no tyrant reigns. 

And earth alone for man hath chains ! 

What though I perish ere the hour 

When Scotland's vengeance wakes in power, 

If shed for her, my blood shall stain 

The field or scaffold not in vain. 

Its voice, to efforts more sublime, 

Shall rouse the spirit of her clime, 

And in the noontide of her lot, 

My country shall forget me not !" 



ilrithou forgot"? and hath thy worth 
Without its glory passed from Earth T 
— Rest with the brave, whose names belong 
To the high sanctity of song. 
Chattered our reverence to control, 
And traced in sunbeams on the soul. 
Thine, Wallace ! while the heart hath still 
One pulse a generous thought can thrill. 
While Youth's warm tears are yet the meed 
Of martyr's death, or hero's deed. 
Shall brightly live, from age to age. 
Thy country's proudest heritage. 



'Midst her green vales thy fame is dwelling, 
Thy deeds her mountain-winds are telling, 
Thy memory speaks in torrent-wave. 
Thy step hath hallowed rock and cave; 
And cold the wanderer's heart must be, i 
That holds no converse there with thee. 

Yet, Scotland ! to thy champion's shade, 
Still are thy grateful rites delayed. 
From lands of old renown, o'erspread 
With proud memorials of the dead. 
The trophied urn, the breathing bust, 
The pillar, guarding noble dust. 
The shrine, where art and genius high 
Have laboured for Eternity ! — 
Tiie stranger comes, — his eye explores 
The wilds of thy majestic shores. 
Yet vainly seeks one native stone, 
Raised to the hero all thine own. 

Land of bright deeds and minstrel lore! 
Withhold the guerdon now no more! 
On some bold height of awful form, . 
Stern eyrie of tlip cloud and storm. 
Sublimely mingling with the skies, 
Bid the proud Cenotaph arise ! 
Not to record the name that thrills 
Thy soul, the watch-word of thy hills ; 
Not to assert with needless claim, 
The bright ybr ever of its fame ; 
But, in the ages yet untold. 
When ours shall be the days of old. 
To rouse high hearts, and speak thy pride 
In him, for thee who lived and died. 

1819. 



Kilt ami ^mx^tantint. 



Thou striveRt nobly, 

Wlien hearts of sterner stuff perhaps hud sunk : 

And o'er thy fall, if it be so decreed, 

Good men will mourn, and brave men will shed teal's. 

Fame I look not for, 

But to sustain, in Heaven's all-seeing eye, 
Before my fellow men, in mine own sight, 
With graceful virtue and becoming pride, 
The dignity and honour of a man. 
Thus stationed as I am, I will do all 
That man may do. 

3iiss Baillie's Constantine Palccologus. 



I. 

The fires grew pale on Rome's deserted shrines, 
In the dim grot the Pythia's voice had died ; 
— Shout, for the City of the Constantines, 
The rising City of the billow-side, 
The City of the Cross! — great Ocean's bride. 
Crowned from her birth she sprung! — Long 

ages passed. 
And still she looked in glory o'er the tide, 



Which at her feet Barbaric riches cast. 
Poured by the burning East, all joyously and fast. 

II. 

Long ages passed ! — they left her porphyry halls 
Still trod by kingly foot-steps. Gems and gold 
Broidered her mantle, and her castled walls 
Frowned in their strength ; yet there were sign* 
which told 



180 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



The days were full. The pure high faith of old 
Was changed ; and on her silken couch of sleep 
She lay, and murmured if a rose-leaf's fold 
Disturbed her dreams ; and called her slaves to 
keep 
Their watch, that no rude sound might reach her 
o'er the deep. 

III. 

But there are sounds that from the regal dwell- 
ing 
Free hearts and fearless only may exclude ; 
'Tis not alone the wind at midnight swelling, 
Breaks on the soft repose by Luxury wooed! 
Tliere are unbidden footsteps, which intrude 
Where the lamps glitter, and the wine-cup flows. 
And darker hues have stained the marble, 

strewed 
With the fresh myrtle, and the short-lived rose, 
And Parian walls have rung to the dread march 
of foes. , 

IV. : 

A voice of multitudes is on the breeze, 
Remote, yet solemn as the night-storm's roar 
Through Ida's giant-pines ! Across the seas 
A murmur comes, like that the deep winds bore 
From Tempe's haunted river to the shore 
Of the reed-crowned Eurotas ; when, of old, 
Dark Asia sent her battle-myriads o'er 
Th' indignant wave which would not be con- 
trolled. 
But, past the Persian's chain, in boundless freedom 
rolled. 



And it is thus again ! — Swift oars are dashing 

The parted waters, and a light is cast 

On their white foam-wreaths, from the sudden 

flashing 
Of Tartar spears, whose ranks are thickening 

fast. 
There swells a savage trumpet on the blast, 
A music of the deserts, wild and deep. 
Wakening strange echoes as the shores are past 
Where low 'midst lUon's dust her conquerors 



O'ershadowing with high names each rude sepul- 
chral heap. 

VI. 

War from the West ! — the snows on Thracian 

hills 
Are loosed by Spring's warm breath ; yet o'er 

the lands 
Which Hsemus girds, the chainless mountain 

rills 
Pour down less swiftly than the Moslem bands. 
War from the East! — 'midst Araby's lone sands, 



More lonely now the few bright founts may be, 
While Ismael's bow is bent in warrior-hands 
Against the Golden City of the sea;(l) 
— Oh ! for a soul to fire thy dust Tliermopylae ! 

VII. 

Hear yet again, ye mighty I — Where are they. 
Who, with their green Olympic garlands crown- 
ed. 
Leaped up in proudly beautiful array, 
As to a banquet gathering, at the sound 
Of Persia's clarion 1 — Far and joyous round. 
From the pine-forests, and the mountain-snows. 
And the low sylvan valleys, to the bound 
Of the bright waves, at Freedom's voice they 
rose ! 
— Hath it no thrilling tone to break the tomb's re- 
pose 1 

VIIL 

They slumber with their swords ! — The olive 

shades 
In vain are whispering their immortal tale ! 
In vain the spirit of the past pervades 
The soft winds breathing through each Grecian 

vale, 
— Yet must thou wake, though all unarmecT and ' 

pale. 
Devoted City ! — Lo ! the Moslem's spear, 
Red from its vintage, at thy gates ; his sail 
Upon thy waves, his trumpet in thine ear ! 
— Awake and summon those, who yet, perchance, 

may hear ! 

IX. 

Be hushed, thou faint and feeble voice of weep- 
ing! 
Lift ye the banner of the Cross on high. 
And call on chiefs whose noble sires are sleeping 
In their proud graves of sainted chivalry. 
Beneath the palms and cedars, where they sigh 
To Syrian gales ! — The sons of each brave line, 
From their baronial halls shall hear your cry. 
And seize the arms which flashed round Salem's 
shrine. 
And wield for you the swords once waved for Pa- 
lestine ! 

X. 

All still, all voiceless ; — and the billows roar 
Alone replies ! — Alike their soul is gone, 
Who shared the funeral feast on CEta's shore, 
And theirs, that o'er the field of Ascalon 
Swelled the crusader's hymn! — Then gird thou 

on 
Thine armour, Eastern Clueen ! and meet the 

hour. 
Which waits thee ere the day's fierce work is 

done, 



THE LAST CONST ANTINE. 



181 



With a strong heart ; so may thy helmet tower 
Unshivered through the storm, for generous hope 
is power ! 

XI. 

But hnger not, — array thy men of might ! 
The sliores, the seas are peopled with thy foes. 
Arms through thy cypress groves are gleaming 

bright, 
And the dark huntsmen of the wild, repose 
Beneath the shadowy marble porticoes 
Of thy proud villas. Nearer and more near, 
Around thy walls the sons of battle close ; 
Each hour, each moment, hath its sound of fear, 
Which the deep grave alone is chartered not to hear. 

XII. 

Away! bring wine, bring odours to the shade, (2) 
Where the tall pine and poplar blend on high ! 
Bring roses, exquisite, but soon to fade! 
Snatch every brief delight, — since we must die! 
Yet is the hour, degenerate Greeks! gone by. 
For feast in \ine-wreathed bower, or pillared 

hall; 
Dim gleams the torch beneath yon fiery sky, 
And deep and hollow is the tambour's call, 
And from the startled hand th' untasted cup will 

fall. 

XIII. 

The night, the glorious oriental night, 
Hath lost the silence of her purple heaven. 
With its clear stars ! The red artillery's light, 
Athwart her worlds of tranquil splendour driven, 
To the still firmament's expanse hath given 
Its own fierce glare, wherein each cliff and tower 
Starts wildly forth ; and now the air is riven 
With thunder- bursts, and now dull smoke-clouds 
lower, 
Veiling the gentle moon, in her most hallowed 
hour. 

XIV. 

Sounds from the waters, sounds upon the earth, 
Sounds in the air, of battle ! Yet with these 
A voice is mingling, whose deep tones give birth 
To Faith and Courage ! From luxurious ease 
A gallant few have started ! O'er the seas, 
From the Seven Towers,(3) their banner waves 

its sign, 
And Hope is whispering in the joyous breeze. 
Which plays amidst its folds. That voice was 

thine ; 
Thy soul was on that band, devoted Constantine. 

XV. 

Was Rome thy parent 1 Didst thou catch from 

her 
The fire that lives in thine undaunted eye 1 



— That city of the throne and sepulchre 
Hath given proud lessons how to reign and die! 
Heir of the Caesars! did tlmt lineage high, 
Which, as a triumph to tlie grave, hath passed 
With its long march of sceptred imagery ,(4) 
Th' heroic mantle o'er thy spirit casf? 
— Thou ! of an eagle-race the noblest and the last ! 

XVI 

Vain dreams ! upon that spirit hath descended 
Light from the living Fountain, whence each 

thouglit 
Springs pure and holy ! In that eye is blended 
A spark, with Earth's triumphal memories 

fraught, 
And far within, a deeper meaning, caught 
From worlds unseen. A hope, a lofty trust. 
Whose resting-place on buoyant wing is sought 
(Though through its veil, seen darkly from the 

dust,) 
In realms where Time no more hath power upon 
the just. 

XVII. 

Those were proud days, when on the battle plain. 
And in the sun's bright face, and 'midst th' array 
Of awe-struck hosts, and circled by the slain. 
The Roman cast his glittering mail away,(5) 
And, while a silence, as of midnight, lay 
O'er breathless thousands, at his voice who start- 
ed,- 
Called on the unseen, terrific powers that sway 
The heights, the depths, the shades ; then, fear- 
less-hearted, 
Girt on his robe of death, and for the grave departed. 

XVIII. 
But then, around him as tiie javelins rushed, 
From earth to heaven swelled up the loud acclaim ; 
And, ere his heart's last free libation gushed. 
With a bright smile the warrior caught his name, 
Far-floating on the winds ! And Victory came, 
And made the hour of that immortal deed 
A life, in fiery feeling! Valour's aim 
Had sought no loftier guerdon. Thus to bleed. 
Was to be Rome's high star ! — He died — and had 
his meed. 

XIX. 

But praise — and dearer, holier praise, be theirs, 
Who, in the stillness and the solitude 
O f hearts pressed earthwards by a weight of cares, 
Uncheered by Fame's proud hope,th' ethereal food 
Of restless energies, and only viewed 
By Him whose eye, from his eternal throne, 
Is on the soul's dark places ; have subdued 
And vowed themselves, with strength till then 
unknown. 
To some high martyr-task, in secret and alone. 



183 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



XX. 

Theirs be the bright and sacred names enshrined 
Far in the bosom ! for their deeds belong, 
Not to the gorgeous faith which charmed manldnd 
"With its rich pomp of festival and song, 
Garland and shrine, and incense-hearing throng ; 
But to that Spirit, hallowing, as it tries 
Man's hidden soul in whispers, yet more strong 
Than storm or earthquake's voice; for i/ience arise 
All that mysterious world's unseen sublimities. 

XXI. 

Well might thy name, brave Constantine ! awake 
Such thought, suchfeehng ! — But the scene again 
Bursts on my vision, as the day-beams break 
Through the red sulphurous mists : the camp, 

the plain, 
The terraced palaces, the dome-capt fane, 
Withits bright cross fixed high in crowning grace; 
Spears on the ramparts, galleys on the main, 
And, circHng all with arms, that turbaned race, 
The sun, the desert, stamped in each dark, haugh- 
ty face. 

XXII. 

Shout, ye seven hills ! Lo ! Christian pennons 

streaming 
Red o'er the waters !(6) Hail, deliverers, hail, 
Along your billowy wake the radiance gleaming, 
Is Hope's own smile ! They crowd the swell- 
ing sail. 
On, with the foam, the sun-beam, and the gale. 
Borne, as a victor's car 1 The batteries pour 
Their clouds and thunders ; but the rolling veil 
Of smoke floats up th' exulting winds before ! 
—And oh ! the glorious burst of that bright sea 
and shore ! . 

XXIII. 

The rocks, waves, ramparts, Europe's, Asia's 

coast, 
All thronged ! one theatre for kingly war ! 
A monarch girt with his Barbaric host. 
Points o'er the beach his flashing scymetar ! 
Dark tribes are tossing javelins from afar, 
Hands waving banners o'er each battlement, 
Decks, with their serried guns, arrayed to bar 
The promised aid ; but hark ! a shout is sent 
Up from the noble barks !— the Moslem line is rent ! 

XXIV. 
On, on through rushing flame, and arrowy show- 
er, 

The welcome prows have cleft their rapid way, 
And, with the shadows of the vesper-hour. 
Furled their white sails, and anchored in the bay. 
Then were the streets with song and torch-fire 

gay, 



Then the Greek wines flowed mantling in the 

light 
Of festal halls; — and there was joy ! — the ray 
Of dying eyes, a moment wildly bright. 
The sunset of the soul, ere lost to mortal sight 1 

XXV. 

For, vain that feeble succour ! Day by day 
Th' imperial towers are crumbling, and the 

sweep 
Of the vast engines, in their ceaseless play. 
Comes powerful as when Heaven unbinds the 

deep ! 
— ^Man's heart is mightier than the castled steep, 
Yet will it sink when earthly hope is fled ; 
Man's thoughts work darkly in such hours, and 

sleep 
Plies far ; and in their mien, the walls who tread, 
Things, by the brave untold, may fearfully be read ! 

XXVI. 

It was a sad and solemn task to hold 
Their midnight -watch on that beleaguered wall ! 
As the sea-wave beneath the bastions rolled, 
A sound of fate was in its rise and fall ! 
The heavy clouds were as an empire's pall. 
The giant-shadows of each tower and fane 
Lay like the grave's ; a low, mysterious call 
Breathed in the wind, and from the tented plain 
A voice of omens rose, with each wild martial strain, 

XXVII. 
For they might catch the Arab charger's neigh- 
ing. 
The Thracian drum, the Tartar's drowsy song ; 
Might almost hear the soldan's baniier swaying. 
The watch-word muttered in some eastern 

tongue. 
Then flashed the gun's terrific light along 
The marble streets, all stillness — not repose ; 
And boding thoughts came o'er them, dark and 

strong ; 
For heaven, earth, air, speak auguries to those 
Who see their numbered hours fast pressing to the 
close. 

XXVIII. 

But strength is from the mightiest! There is 

one 
Still in the breach and on the rampart seen, 
Whose cheek shows paler with each morning 

sun. 
And tells in silence,. how the night hath been, 
In kingly halls, a vigil : yet serene. 
The ray set deep within his thoughtful eye. 
And there is that in his collected mien. 
To which the hearts of noble men reply, 
With fires, partaking not this frame's mortality! 



THE LAST CONSTANTINE. 



183 



XXIX. 

Yes! call it not of lofty minds the fate, 
To pass o'er earth in brightness, but alone ; 
High power was made their birthright, to create 
A thousand thoughts responsive to their own ! 
A thousand echoes of their spirit's tone 
Start into life, where'er their path may be, 
Still following fast; as when the wind hath 

blown 
O'er Indian groves,(7) a wanderer wild and 

free, 
Kindling and bearing flames afar from tree to tree ! 

XXX. 

And it is thus with thee ! thy lot is cast 
On evil days, thou Caesar! yet the few 
That set their generous bosoms to the blast 
Which rocks thy throne — the fearless and the 

true, 
Bear hearts wherein thy glance can still renew 
The free devotion of the years. gone by, 
When from bright dreams th' ascendant Roman 

drew 
Enduring strength! — states vanish— ages fly — 
But leave one task unchanged — to suflTer and to 
die! 

XXXI. 

These are ournature's heritage. But thou. 
The crowned with empire ! thou wert called to 

share 
A cup more bitter. On thy fevered brow 
The semblance of that buoyant hope to wear, 
Which long had passed away ; alone to bear 
The rush and pressure of dark thoughts, that 

came 
As a strong billow in their weight of care ; 
And, with all this, to smile! for earth-born 

frame. 
These are stern conflicts, yet they pass, unknown 
to fame ! 

XXXII. 

Her glance is on the triumph, on the field. 
On the red scaffold ; and where'er, in sight 
Of human eyes, the human soul is steeled 
To deeds that seem as of immortal might. 
Yet are proud nature's ! But her meteor light 
Can pierce no depths, no clouds ; it falls not 

where, 
In silence, and in secret, and in night. 
The noble heart doth wrestle with despair. 
And rise more strong than death from its unwit- 
nessed prayer. 

XXXIII. 

Men have been firm in battle : they have stood , 
With a prevailing hope on ravaged plains, 



And won the birthright of their hearths with 

blood. 
And died rejoicing, 'midst their ancient fanes, 
That so their children, undefiled with chains. 
Might worship there in peace. But they that 

stand 
When not a beacon o'er the wave remains, 
Linked but to perish with a ruined land, 
Where Freedom dies with them — call these a 
martyr-band ! 

XXXIV. 

But the world heeds them not. Or if, per- 
chance. 
Upon their strife it bend a careless eye, 
It is but as the Roman's stoic glance 
Fell on that stage where man's last agony 
Was made his sport, who, knowing one must 

die. 
Recked not which champion 5 but prepared the 

strain. 
And bound the bloody wreath of victory, 
To greet the conqueror ; while, with calm dis- 
dain. 
The vanquished proudly met the doom he met in 
vain. 

XXXV. 

The hour of Fate comes on ! and it is fraught 
With this of Liberty, that now the need 
Is past to veil the brow of anxious thought. 
And clothe the heart, which still beneath must 

bleed, 
With Hope's fair-seeming drapery. We are 

freed 
From tasks like these by Misery ; one alone 
Is left the brave, and rest shall be thy meed. 
Prince, watcher, wearied one 1 when thou hast 

shown 
How brief the cloudy space which parts the grave 

and throne ! 

XXXVI. 

The signs are full. They are not in the sky, 
Nor in the many voices of the air, 
Nor the swift clouds. No fiery hosts on high. 
Toss their wild spears ; no meteor-banners glare, 
No comet fiercely shakes its blazing hair, 
And yet the signs are full : too truly seen 
In the thin ramparts, in the pale despair 
Which lends one language to a people's mien. 
And in the ruined heaps where walls and towers 
have been ! 

XXXVII. 

It is a night of beauty ; euch a night 
As, from the sparry grot or laurel-shade, 



184 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



Ye have looked down on battles! Fear and 

Flight, 
And armed Revenge, all hurrying past below ! 
But there is yet a more appalling sight 
For earth prepared, than e'er, with tranquil 

brow, 
Ye gazed on from your world of solitude and 

snow ! 

XLII. 

Last night a sound was in the Moslem camp, 

And Asia's hiils re-echoed to a cry 

Of savage mirth ! — Wild horn, and war-steeds' 

^ tramp, 

Blent with the shout of barbarous revelry. 
The clash of desert-spears ! Last night the sky 
A hue of menace and of wrath put on, 
Caught from red watch-fires, blazing far and 

high. 
And countless, as the flames, in ages gone. 

Streaming to heaven's bright queen from shadowy 
Lebanon! 

XLin. 

But all is stillness now. May this be sleep 
Which wraps those eastern thousands'? Yes, 

perchance 
Along yon moonlight shore and dark-blue deep 
Bright are their visions with the Houri's glance, 
And they behold the sparkling fountains dance 
Beneath the bowers of paradise, that shed 
Rich odours o'er the faithful ; but the lance, 
The bow, the spear, now round the slumberers 

spread. 
Ere Fate fulfil such dreams, must rest beside the' 
dead. 

XLIV. 

May this be sleep, this hush 1 — A sleepless eye 
Doth hold its vigil 'midst that dusky race ! 
One that would scan th' abyss of destiny. 
E'en now is gazing on the skies, to trace, 
In those bright worlds, the burning isles of space, 
Fate's mystic pathway; they the while, serene, 
Walk in their beauty ; but Mohammed's face, 
Kindles beneath their aspect,(9) and his mien, 
All fired with stormy joy, by that soft light is seen. 

XLV. 

Oh ! wild presumption of a conqueror's dream, 
To gaze on those pure altar-fires, enshrined 
In depths of blue infinitude, and deem 
They shine to guide the spoiler of mankind 
O'er fields of blood ! — But with the restless mind 
It hath been ever thus ! and they that weep 
For worlds to conquer, o'er the bounds assigned 
To human search, in daring pride would sweep, 
And mantling thence the retdiiis beneath with As o'er the trampled dust wherein they soon must 
night : ; sleep. 



Or wave in marbled cavern rippling bright. 
Might woo tlie nymphs of Grecian fount and 

glade 
To sport beneath its moonbeams, which pervade 
Their forest-haimts : a night, to rove alone, 
Where the young leaves by vernal winds are 

swayed, 
And the reeds whisper, with a dreamy tone 
Of melody, that seems to breathe from worlds un- 
known. 

XXXVIII. 
A night, to call from green Elysium's bowers 
The shades of elder bards : a night, to hold 
Unseen communion with th' inspiring powers 
That made deep groves their dwelhng-place of 

old; 
A night, for mourners, o'er the hallowed mould, 
To strew sweet flowers ; for revellers to fill 
And wreath the cup ; for sorrows to be told. 
Which love hath cherished long ; — vain 
thoughts! be still! 
— It is a night of fate, stamped with Almighty 
Will! 

XXXIX. 

It should come sweeping in the storm, and rend- 
ing 

The ancient summits in its dread career ! 

And with vast billows wrathfully contending. 

And with dark clouds o'ershadowing every 
sphere ! 

— But He, whose footstep shakes the earth with 
fear. 

Passing to lay the sovereign cities low, 

Alike in His omnipotence is near. 

When the soft winds o'er spring's green path- 
way blow. 
And when His thunders cleave the monarch- 
mountain's brow. 

XL. 

The heavens in still magnificence look down 
On the hushed Bosphorus, whose ocean-stream 
Sleeps, with its paler stars: the snowy crown 
Of far Olympus, (8) in the moonlight-gleam 
Towers radiantly, as when the Pagan's dream 
Thronged it with gods, and bent the adoring 

knee! 
— But that is past — and now the One Supreme 
Fills not alone those haunts ; but earth, air, sea. 
And time, which presses on, to finish his decree. 

XLI. 

.Olympns, Ida, Delphi! ye, the thrones 
And temples of a visionary might, 
Brooding in clouds above your forest-zones, 



THE LAST CONSTANTINE. 



185 



XLVI. 

But ye! that beamed on Fate's tremendous 

night, 
When the storm burst o'er golden Babylon, 
And ye, that sparkled with your wonted light 
O'er burning Salem, by the Roman won; 
And ye, that calmly viewed the slaughter done 
In Rome's own streets, when Alaric's trumpet- 
blast 
Rung through the Capitol; bright spheres ! roll on! 
Still bright, though empires fall; and bid man 
cast 
His humbled eyes to earth, and commune with 
the past. 

XLVII. 

For it hath mighty lessons ! from the tomb. 
And from the ruins of the tomb, and where, 
'Midst the wrecked cities in the desert's gloom. 
All tameless creatures make their savage lair, 
Thence comes its voice, that shakes the mid- 
night air, 
And calls up clouds to dim the laughing day, 
And thrills the soul ; — yet bids us not despair, 
But make one rock our shelter and our stay. 
Beneath whose shade all else is passing to decay ! 

XLVIII. 

The hours move on. I see a wavering gleam 
O'er the hushed waters tremulously fall. 
Poured from the Cffisars' palace : now the beam 
Of many lamps is brightening in the hall, 
And from its long arcades and pillars tall 
Soft, graceful shadows undulating lie 
On the wave's heaving bosom, and recall 
A thought of Venice, with her moonlight sky, 
And festal seas and domes, and fairy pageantry. 

XLIX. 

But from that dwelling floats no mirthful sound ! 
The swell of flute and Grecian lyre no more, 
Wafting an atmosphere of music round. 
Tells the hushed seaman, ghding past the shore. 
How monarchs revel there ! — Its feasts are o'er — 
Why gleam the lights along its colonnade ? 
— I see a train of guests in silence pour 
Through its long avenues of terraced shade, 
Whose stately founts and bowers for joy alone 
were made! 

L. 

In silence, and in arms! With helm — with 

sword — 
These are no marriage-garments! — Yet e'en 

now 
Thy nuptial feast should grace the regal board. 
Thy Georgian bride should wreath her lovely 

brow 



With an imperial diadem !(10)— but thou, 
O fated prince! art called, and these with thee, 
To darker scenes ; and thou hast learned to hovr 
Thine Eastern sceptre to the dread decree. 
And count it joy enough to perish— being free! 

LI. 

On through long vestibules, with solemn tread, 
As men that in some time of fear and wo, 
Bear darkly to their rest the noble dead. 
O'er whom by day their sorrows may not flow, 
The warriors pass: their measured steps are 

slow. 
And hollow echoes fill the marble halls, 
Whose long-drawn vistas open as they go. 
In desolate pomp ; and from the pictured walls, 
Sad seems the light itself, which on their armour 
falls ! 

LII. 

And they have reached a gorgeous chamber, 

bright 
With all we dream of splendour; yet a gloom 
Seems gathered o'er it to the boding sight, 
A shadow that anticipates the tomb ! 
Still from its fretted roof the lamps illume 
A purple canopy, a golden throne ; 
But it is empty ! — Hath the stroke of doom 
Fallen there .already 7 — Where is He, the One, 
Born that high seat to fill, supremely and alone 1 

LIIl. 

Oh ! there are times whose pressure doth efface 
Earth's vain distinctions I — when the storm beats 

loud. 
When the strong towers are tottering to their 

base. 
And the streets rock, — who mingle in the crowd? 
— Feasant and chief, the lowly and the proud, 
Are in that thr>)ng ! — Yes, life hath many an 

hour 
Which makes us kindred, by one chastening 

bowed. 
And feeling but, as from tlie storm we cower. 
What shrinking weakness feels before unbounded 

power! 

LIV. 

Yet then that Power, whose dwelling is on high, 
Its loftiest marvels doth reveal, and speak 
In the deep human heart more gloriously, 
Than in the bursting thunder ! — Thence the 

weak , 
They that seemed formed, as flower-stems, but 

to break 
With the first wind, have risen to deeds, whose 

name 
Still calls up thoughts that mantle to the check, 



186 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



And thrill the pulse ! — Ay, strength no pangs 
could tame 
Hath looked from woman's eye upon the sword 
and flame ! 

LV. 

And this is of such hours ! — That throne is void, 
And its lord comes, uncrown'd. Behold him stand, 
With a calm brow, where woes have not de- 
stroyed 
The Greek's heroic beauty, 'midst his band, 
The gathered virtue of a sinking land, 
Alas ! how scanty ! — Now is cast aside 
All form of princely state? each noble hand 
Is prest by turns in his: for earthly pride 
There is no room in hearts where earthly hope 
hath died ! 

LVI. 

A moment's hush — and then he speaks — he 

speaks ! 
But not of hope! that dream hath long gone by : 
His words are full of memory — as he seeks. 
By the strong names of Rome and Liberty, 
Which yet are living powers that fire the eye, 
And rouse the heart of manhood ; and by all 
The sad yet grand remembrances that lie 
Deep with earth's buried heroes ; to recall 
The soul of other years, if but to grace their fall ! 

LVII. 

His words are full of faith! — And thoughts, more 

high 
Than Rome e'er knew, now fill his glance with 

light; 
Thoughts which gave nobler lessons how to die 
Than e'er were drawn from Nature's haughty 

might ! 
.And to that eye, with all the spirit bright, 
Have theirs replied in tears, which may not shame 
The bravest in such moments ! — 'T is a sight 
To make all earthly splendours cold and tame, 
—That generous burst of soul, with its electric 

flame! 

LVIII. 

They weep — those champions of the cross — they 

weep. 
Yet vow themselves to death ! — Ay, 'midst that 

train 
Are martyrs, privileged in tears to steep 
Their lofty sacrifice I — The pang is vain, 
And yet its gush of sorrow shall not stain 
A warrior's sword. — Those men are strangers 

here— (11) 
The homes, they never may behold again. 
Lie far away, with all things blest and dear, 
On laughing shores, to which their barks no more 

shall steer I 



LIX. 

Know'st thou the land where bloom the orange 

bowers X 12) 
Where through dark foliage gleam the citron's 

dyesi 
It is their own. They see their father's towers, 
'Midst its Hesperian groves in sunlight rise : 
They meet in soul, the bright Italian eyes. 
Which long and vainly shall explore the main 
For their white sail's return : the melodies 
Of that sweet land are floating o'er their brain — 
— Oh ! what a crowded world one moment may 

contain I 

LX. 

Such moments come to thousands ! — few may 

die 
Amidst their native shades. The young, the 

brave, 
The beautiful, whose gladdening voice and eye 
Made summer in a parent's heart, and gave 
Light to their peopled homes ; o'er land and wave 
Are scattered fast and far, as rose-leaves fall 
From the deserted stem. They find a grave 
Far from the shadow of th' ancestral hall, 
— A lonely bed is theirs, whose smiles were hope 

to all ! 

XLI. 

But life flows on, and bears us with its tide, 
Nor may we, lingering, by the slumberers dwell, 
Though they were those once blooming at our 

side 
In youth's gay home! — Away! what sound's 

deep swell 
Comes on the wind 1 — It is an empire's knell. 
Slow, sad, majestic, pealing through the night ! 
For the last time speaks forth the solemn bell, 
Which calls the Christians to their hoUest rite, 
With a funereal voice of solitary might. 

LXII. 

Again, and yet again ! — A startling power 
In sounds like these lives ever ; for they bear, 
Full on remembrance each eventful hour. 
Chequering life's crowded path. They fill the 

air 
When conquerors pass, and fearful cities wear 
A mien like joys ; and when young brides are 

led 
From their paternal homes ; and when the glare 
Of burning streets, on midnight's cloud, waves 

red, 
And when the silent house receives its guest — the 

dead.(13) 

LXIIL 

But to those tones what thrilling soul was given, 
On that last night of empire ! — As a spell 



THE LAST CONSTANTINE. 



187 



Whereby the Hfe-blood to its source is driven, 
On the chilled heart of multitudes they fell. 
Each cadence seemed a prophecy, to tell 
Of sceptres passing from their line away, 
An angel-watcher's long and sad farewell, 
The requiem of a faith's departing sway, 
A throne's, a nation's dirge, a wail for earth's de- 
cay. 

LXIV. 

Again, and yet again! — from yon high dome. 
Still the slow peal comes awfully; and they 
Who never more to rest in mortal home, 
Shall throw the breastplate off at fall of day, 
Th' imperial band in close and armed array 
As men that from the sword must part no more, 
Take through the midnight streets their silent 

way, 
Within their ancient temple to adore. 
Ere yet its thousand years of christian pomp are 
o'er. 

LXV. 

It is the hour of sleep : yet few the eyes. 
O'er which forgetfulness her balm hath shed. 
In the beleagured city. Stillness lies 
With moonlight, o'er the hills and waters spread, 
But not the less with signs and sounds of dread, 
The time speeds on. No voice is raised to greet 
The last brave Constantine ; and yet the tread 
Of many steps is in the echoing street. 
And pressure of pale crowds, scarce conscious 
why they meet. 

LXVI. 

Their homes are luxury's yet : why pour they 

thence 
With a dim terror in each restless eye 1 
Hath the dread car, which bears the pestilence. 
In darkness, with its heavy wheels, rolled by. 
And rocked their palaces, as if on high. 
The whirlwind passed? — From couch and joy- 
ous board 
Hath the fierce phantom beckoned them to die 1 
•^No! — what are these? — for them a cup is 
poured(14) 
More dark with wrath; — Man comes — the spoiler 
and the sword. 

LXVII. 

Still as the monarch and his chieftains pass 
Through those pale throngs, the streaming 

torchlight throws 
On some wild form; amidst the living mass. 
Hues, deeply red, like lava's, which disclose 
What countless shapes are worn by mortal 



Lips bloodless, quivering limbs, hands clasped 

in prayer. 
Starts, tremblings, hurry ings, tears- all outward 

shows 
Betokening inward agonies, were there: 
— Greeks! Romans! all but such as image brave 

despair ! 

LXVIII. 
But high above that scene in bright repose, 
And beauty borrowing from the torches' gleams 
A mien of life, yet where no life-blood flows, 
But all instinct with loftier being seems. 
Pale, grand, colossal; lo! th' embodied dreams 
Of yore! — Gods, heroes, bards, in marble 

wrought. 
Look down, as powers, upon the wild extremes. 
Of mortal passion ! — Yet 't was man that caught, 
And in each glorious form enshrined immortal 
thought! 

LXIX. 

Stood ye not thus amidst the streets of Rome? 
That Rome which witnessed, in her sceptred 

days. 
So much of noble death? — When shrine and 

dome, 
'Midst clouds of incense, rung with choral lays, 
As the long triumph passed with all its blaze 
Of regal spoil, were ye not proudly borne, 
O sovereign forms! concentering all the rays 
Of the soul's lightnings ? — did ye not adorn 
The pomp which earth stood still to gaze on and 
to mourn? 

LXX. 

Hath it been thus? — Or did ye grace the halls, 
Once peopled by the mighty? — Haply there, 
In your still grandeur, from the pillared walls 
Serene ye smiled on banquets of despair. 
Where hopeless courage wrought itself to dare, 
The stroke of its deliverance, 'midst the glow 
Of living wreaths, the sighs of perfumed air. 
The sound of lyres, the flower-crowned goblet's 
flow:(15) 
— Behold again ! — high hearts make nobler ofTer- 
ings now 1 

LXXl. 

The stately fane is reached — and at its gate 
The warriors pause; on life's tumultuous tide 
A stillness falls, while he, whom regal state 
Hath marked from all, to be more sternly tried. 
By suffering, speaks : — each ruder voice hath 

died, 
While his implores forgiveness! — " If there be 
One 'midst your throngs, my people! — ^whom in 

pride, 



188 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



Or passion, I have wronged ; such pardon, free 
As mortals hope from Heaven, accord that man 
tome!" 

LXXII. 

But all is silence ; and a gush of tears 
Alone replies! — He hath not been of those 
Who, feared hy many, pine in secret fears 
Of all ; th' environed but by slaves and foes, 
To whqm day brings not safety, night repose. 
For they have heard the voice crij " sleep no 

more !" 
Of them he hath not been, nor su(;h, as close 
Their hearts to misery, till the time is o'er, 
When it speaks low and kneels th' oppressor's 
throne before 1 

LXXIII. 

He hath been loved — but who may trust the love 
Of a degenerate race ? — in other mould 
Are cast the free and lofty hearts, that prove 
Their faith through fiery trials. — Yet behold. 
And call him not forsaken. — Thoughts untold 
Have lent his aspect calmness, and his tread 
Moves firmly to the shrine. — What pomps un- 
fold 
Within its precincts ! — Isles and seas have shed 
Their gorgeous treasures there, around th' impe- 
rial dead. 

LXXIV. 

'Tis a proud vision — that most regal pile 

Of ancient days 1 — the lamps are streaming 

bright 
From its rich altar, down each pillared isle. 
Whose vista fades in dimness ; but the sight 
Is lost in splendours, as the wavering light 
Developes on those walls the thousand dyes 
Of the veined marbles, which array their height. 
And from yon dome,(lG) the lode-star of all 

eyes, 
Pour such an iris- glow as emulates the skies. 

LXXV. 

But gaze thou not on these; though heaven's 

own hues 
In their soft; clouds and radiant tracery vie ; 
Though tints, of sun-born glory, may suffuse 
Arch, column, rich mosaic : pass thou by 
The stately tombs, where eastern Csesars lie. 
Beneath their trophies; pause not here, for 

know, 
A deeper source of all sublimity 
Lives in man's bosom, than the world can show, 
In nature or in art, above, around, below. 



LXXVI. 

Turn thou to mark (though tears may dim thy 

gaze) 
The steel-clad group before yon altar-stone ; 
Heed not, though gems and gold around it blaze, 
Those heads unhclmed, those kneeling forms 

alone. 
Thus bowed, look glorious here. The light is 

thrown 
Full from the shrine on one, a nation's lord 
A sufferer ! — but his task shall soon be done — 
E'en now, as Faith's mysterious cup is poured, 
See to that noble brow, peace, not of earth, re- 
stored ! 

LXXVII. 

The rite is o'er. The band of brethren part, 
Once — and but once — to meet on earth again ! 
Each, in the strength of a collected heart, 
To dare what man may dare — and know 'tis 

vain ! 
The rite is o'er, and thou majestic fane! 
The glory is departed from thy brow ! 
Be clothed with dust ! — the Christian's farewell 

strain 
Hath died within thy walls; thy Cross must 

bow; 
Thy kingly tombs be spoiled ; thy golden shiines 

laid low ! 

LXXVIII. 

The streets grow still and lonely — and the star, 
The last bright lingerer in the path of morn, 
Gleams faint ; and in the very lap of war. 
As if young Hope with Twilight's ray were 

born. 
Awhile the city sleeps : — her throngs, o'erworn 
With fears and watchings, to their homes retire; 
Nor is the balmy air of dayspring torn 
With battle sounds ;(17) the winds in sighs ex- 
pire. 
And Q,uiet broods in mists, that veil the sunbeam's 
fire. 

LXXIX. 

The city sleeps ! — ay ! on the combat's eve. 
And by the scaffold's brink, and 'midst the swell 
Of angry seas, hath Nature won reprieve 
Thus from her cares. The brave have slum- 
bered well. 
And e'en the fearful, in their dungeon-cell, 
Chained between Life and Death ! — Such rest 

be thine. 
For conflicts wait thee still ! — Yet who can tell 
In that brief hour, how much of Heaven may 
shine 
Full on thy spirit's dream 1 — Sleep, weary Con- 
stantine ; 



THE LAST CONSTANTINE. 



189 



LXXX. 

Doth the blast rise "? — the clouded East is red, 
As if a storm were gathering; and 1 hear 
What seems like heavy rain-drops, or the tread, 
The soft and smothered step, of those that fear 
Surprise from ambushed foes. Hark ! yet more 

near 
It comes, a many-toned and mingled sound ; 
A rustling, as of winds where Vjoughs are sear, 
A rolling as of wheels that shake the ground 
From far ; a heavy rush, like seas that burst their 
bound! 

LXXXI. 

Wake, wake ! They come from sea and shore 

ascending 
In hosts your ramparts ! Arm ye for the day ! 
Who now may sleep amidst the thunders rend- 

Through tower and wall, a path for their array? 
Hark ! how the trumpet cheers them to the prey, 
With its wild voice to which the seas reply ! 
And the earth rocks beneath their engine's sway, 
And the far hills repeat their battle-cry, 
Till that fierce tumult seems to shake the vaulted 
sky! 

LXXXII. 

They fail not now, the generous band, that long 
Have ranged their swords around a falling 

throne ; 
Still in those fearless men the walls are strong. 
Hearts, such as rescue empires, are their own I 
— Shall those high energies be vainly shown? 
No! from their towers th' invading tide is driven 
Back, like the Red-sea waves, when God had 

blown 
With his strong winds !(18) — the dark-browed 

ranks are riven — 
Shout, warriors of the cross! — for victory is of 

Heaven ! 

LXXXI II. 

Stand firm ! — Again the crescent host is rushing. 
And the waves foam, as on the galleys sweep, 
With all their fires and darts, though blood is 

gushing 
Fast o'er their sides, as rivers to the deep. 
Stand firm! — there yet is hope — th' ascent is 

steep, 
And from on high no shaft descends in vain ; 
— But those that fall swell up the mangled heap, 
In the red moat, the dying and the slain, 
And o'er that fearful bridge th' assailants mount 

again! 

LXXXIV. 

Oh ! the drcjul mingling in that awful hour, 
Of all terrific sounds ! — the savage tone 
22 



Of the wild horn, the cannon's peal, the shower 
Of hissing darts, the crash of wall's o'erthrown, 
The deep, dull tambour's beat! — man's voice 

alone 
Is there unheard I Ye may not catch the cry 
Of trampled thousands — prayer, and shriek, and 

moan, 
All drowned, as that fierce hurricane sweeps by, 
But swell the unheeded sum earth pays for victory ! 

LXXXV. 

War-clouds have wrapt the city ! — through their 

dun 
O'erloaded canopy, at times a blaze, 
As of an angrj' storm-presaging sun, 
From the Greek fire shoots up ;(19) and light- 
ning rays 
Flash, from the shock of sabres, through the 

haze, 
And glancing arrows cleave the dusky air ! 
— Ay ! this Is in the compass of our gaze, — 
But fearful things, unknown, untold, are there, 
Workings of Wrath and Death, and Anguish, and 
Despair ! 

LXXXVI. 

Wo, shame and wo! — A chief, a warrior flies, 
A red-cross champion, bleeding, wild, and pale ! 
— Oh God ! that nature's passing agonies 
Thus o'er the spark which dies not should pre- 
vail ! 
Yes I rend the arrow from thy shattered mail. 
And stanch the blood-drops, Genoa's fallen 

son !(20) 
Fly swifter yet ! the javelins pour as hail ! 
— But there are tortures which thou canst not 
shun, 
The spirit is their prey; — thy pangs are but begun ! 

LXXXVII. 
Oh! happy in their Glomes, the noble dead! 
The seal is set on their majestic fame ; 
Earth has drunk deep the generous blood they 

shed, 
Fate has no power to dim their stainless name ! 
Tkey may not, in one bitter moment, shame 
Long glorious years ; from many a lofty stem 
Fall graceful flowers, and eagle-hearts grow tame. 
And stars drop, fading, from the diadem ; 
But the bright past is theirs — there is no change 

for them ! 

LXXXVIII. 

Where art thou Constantine 1 — Where Death 

is reaping 
His sevenfold harvest ! Where the stormy light. 
Fast as th' artillery's thunderbolu are sweeping, 
Throws meteor-bursts o'er battle's noonday- 
night'! 



190 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



Where the towers rock and crumble from their 

height, ' 
As the earthquake, and the engines ply 
Like red Vesuvio ; and where human might 
Confronts all this, and still brave hearts beat high, 
While scymetars ring loud on shivering panoply. 

LXXXIX. 

Where art thou Constantine? — Where Chris- 
tian blood 
Hath bathed the walls in torrents, and in vain ! 
Where Faith and Valour perish in the flood. 
Whose billows, rising o'er their bosoms, gain 
Dark strength each moment : where the gallant 

slain 
Around the banner of the cross lie strewed. 
Thick as the vine-leaves on the autumnal plain ; 
Where all, save one high spirit, is subdued, 
And through the breach press on the o'er whelming 
multitude. 

XC. 
Now is he battling 'midst a host alone, 
As the last cedar stems awhile the sway 
Of mountain-storms, whose fury hath o'erthrown 
Its forest-brethren in their green array ! 
And he hath cast his purple robe away, 
With its imjierial bearings ; that his sword 
An iron ransom from the chain may pay, 
And win, what haply Fate may yet accord, 
A soldier's death, the all now left an empire's lord ! 

XCI. 

Search for him now, where bloodiest lie the files 
Which once were men, the faithful and the brave ! 
Search for him now, where loftiest rise the piles 
Of shattered helms and shields, which could not 

save; 
And crests and banners, never more to wave 
In the free winds of heaven I — He is of those 
O'er whom the host may-rush, the tempest rave, 
And the steeds trample, and the spearmen close, 
Yet wake them not ! — so deep their long and last 
repose ! 

XCII. 

Wo to the vanquished ! thus it hath been still, 
Since Time's first march ! — Hark, hark, a peo- 
ple's cry ! 
Ay ! now-the conquerors in the streets fulfil 
Their task of wrath ! In vain the victims fly ; 
Hark ! now each piercing tone of agony 
Blends in the city's shriek I-^-The lot is cast. 
Slaves, 'twasyourc/ioice, thus, rather thus, to die, 
Than where the warrior's blood flows warm and 
fast, 
And roused and mighty hearts beat proudly to the 
last ! 



XCIII. 

Oh ! well doth freedom battle ! — Men have mad* 
E'en 'midst their blazing roofs, a noble stand. 
And on the floors, where once their children 

played. 
And by the hearths, round which their house- 
hold band 
At evening met ; ay ! struggling hand to hand, 
Within the very chambers of their sleep, 
There have they taught the spoilers of the land, 
In chainless hearts what fiery strength lies deep, 
To guard free homes ! — but ye ! kneel, tremblers ! 
kneel and weep ! 

XCIV. 

'T is eve — the storm hath died — the valiant rest 
Low on their shields ; the day's fierce work is 

done. 
And blood-stained seas and burning towers attest 
Its fearful deeds. An empire's race is run ! 
Sad, 'midst his glory, looks the parting sun 
Upon the captive city. Hark ! a swell 
(Meet to proclaim Barbaric war-fields won) 
Of fierce triumphal sounds, that wildly tell, 
The Soldan comes within the Cassars' halls to 
dwell ! 

XCV. 

Yes ! with the peal of cymbal and of gong, 
He comes, — the Moslem treads those ancient 

halls ! 
But all is stillness there, as Death had long 
Been lord alone within those gorgeous walls. 
And half that silence of the grave appals 
The conqueror's heart. Ay, thus with Tri- 
umph's hour. 
Still comes the boding whisper, which recalls 
A thought of those impervious clouds that lower 
O'er Grandeur's path, a sense of some far mightier 
Power ! 

XCVI. 

" The owl upon Afrasiab's towers hath sung 
Her watch-song, and around th' imperial throne 
The spider weaves his web !"(2I) Still darkly 

hung 
That verse of omen, as a prophet's tone. 
O'er his flushed spirit. Years on years have flown 
To prove its truth : kings pile their domes in air, 
That the coiled snake may bask on sculptured 

stone. 
And nations clear the forest, to prepare 
For the wild fox and wolf more stately dwellings 
there ! 

XCVII. 

But thou ! that on thy ramparts proudly dying, 
As a crowned leader in sucla hours should die, 



THE LAST CONSTANTINE. 



191 



Upon thy pyre of shivered spears art lying, 
With the heavens o'er thee for a canopy, 
And banners for thy shroud ! — No tear, no sigh. 
Shall mingle with thy dirge ; for thou art now 
Beyond vicissitude ! Lo ! reared on high, 
The Crescent blazes, while the Cross must bow ; 
But where no change can reach, there, Constan- 
tine, art thou ! 

XCVIII. 

" After life's fitful fever thou sleepest well !" 
We may not mourn thee ! — Sceptretl chiefs, 

from whom 
The earth received her destiny, and fell 
Before them trembling — to a sterner doom 
Have oft been called. For them the dungeon's 

gloom, 

With its cold starless midnight, hath been made 
More fearful darkness, where, as in a tomb. 
Without a tomb's repose, the chain hath weigh- 
ed 
Their very soul to dust, with each high power de- 
cayed. 

XCIX. 

Or in the eye of thousands they have stood, 
To meet the stroke of Death — but not like thee ! 
From bonds and scaflblds hath appealed their 

blood. 
But tbou didst fall unfettered, armed, and free, 
And kingly to the last ! — And if it be, 
That, from the viewless world, whose marvels 

none 
Return to tell, a spirit's eye can see 
The things of earth ; still mayest thou hail the 

sun. 
Which o'er thy land shall dawn, when Freedom's 
fight is won ! 

C. 

And the hour comes, in storm ! — A light is 

glancing 
Far through the forest-god's Arcadian shades! 
— 'T is not the moonbeam, tremulously dancing. 
Where lone Alpheus bathes his haunted glades; 
A murmur, gathering power, the air pervades. 
Round dark Cithaeron, and by Delphi's steep ; 
— 'T is not the song and lyre of Grecian maids. 
Nor pastoral reed that lulls the vales to sleep. 
Nor yet the rustling pines, nor yet the sounding 
deep! 

CI. 

Arms glitter on the mountains, which, of old, 
Awoke to freedom's first heroic strain. 
And by the streams, once crimson as they rolled 
The Persian helm and standard to the main; 
And the blue waves of Salamis again 



Thrill to the trumpet; and the tombs reply. 
With their ten thousand echoes, from each 

plain. 
Far as Plataea's, where the mighty lie, 
Who crowned so proudly there the bowl of liber- 
ty !(22) 

CII. 
Bright land with glory mantled o'er by song, 
Land of the vision-peopled hills and streams, 
And fountains, whose deserted banks alonf , 
Still the soft air with inspiration teems; 
Land of the graves, whose dwellers shall be 

themes 
To verse for ever ; and of ruined shrines. 
That scarce look desolate beneath such beams, 
As bathe in gold thine ancient rocks and pines ! 
— When shall thy sons repose in peace beneath 
their vines'? 

cm. 

Thou wert not made for bonds, nor shame, nor 

fear! 
— Do the hoar oaks and dark-green laurels wave 
O'er Mantintea's earth? — doth Find us rear 
His snows, the sunbeam and the storm to bravel 
And is there yet on Marathon a grave? 
And doth Eurotas lead his silvery line 
By Sparta's ruins 1 — And shall man, a slave, 
Bowed to the dust, amid such scenes repine? 
— If e'er a soil was marked for Freedom's step — 
't is thine ! 

CIV. 

Wash from that soil the stains, with battle- 
showers ! 
— Beneath Sophia's dome the Moslem prays, 
The Crescent gleams amidst the olive-bowers, 
In the Comncni's halls(23) the Tartar svpays: 

But not for long! — the spirit of those days. 

When the three hundred made their funeral pile 
Of Asia's dead, is kindling, like the rays 
Of thy rejoicing sun, when first his smile 

Warms the Parnassian rock, and gilds the Delian 
isle. 

CV. 

If then 't is given thee to arise in might. 
Trampling the scourge, and dashing down the 

chain. 
Pure be thy triumphs, as thy name is bright ! 
The cross of victory should not know a stain! 
So may that faith once more supremely reign, 
Through which we lift our spirits from the dust' 
And deem not, e'en when virtue dies in vain. 
She dies forsaken ; but repose our trust 
On Him whose ways arc dark, unsearchable — but 
just. 



192 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



NOTES. 

Note 1, page 180, col. 2. 
While Ismael's bow, &c. 

The army of Mahomet the Second, at the siege 
of Constantinople, was thronged with fanatics of 
all sects and nations, who were not enrolled 
amongst the regular troops. The Sultan himself 
marched upon the city from Adrianople; but his 
army must have been principally collected in the 
Asiatic provinces which he had previously visited. 

Note 3, page 181, col. 1. 
Bring wine, bring odours, &c. 



Hue vina, et unguenta, et nimium breves 
Flores amoense ferre jube rosae. 

Hot. lib. ii. od. 3. 

Note 3, page 181, col. 1. 

From the Seven Towers, &c. 
The Castle of the Seven Towers is mentioned 
in the Byzantine history, as early as the sixth 
century of the Christian era, as an edifice which 
contributed materially to the defence of Constanti- 
nople; and it was the principal bulwark of the 
town on the coast of the Propontis, in the latter 
periods of the empire. For a description of this 
building see Pouqueville s Travels. 

Note 4, page 181, col. 2. 
With its long march of sceptred imagery. 
An allusion to the Roman custom of carrying 
in procession, at the funerals of their great men, 
the images of their ancestors. 

Note 5, page 181, col. 2. 
The Roman cast his glittering mail away. 
The following was the ceremony of consecration 
with which Decius devoted himself in battle. He 
was ordered by Valerius, the pontifex maximus, 
to quit his military habit, and put on the robe 
he wore in the senate. Valerius then covered 
his head with a veil; commanded him to put 
forth his hand under his robe to his chin, and 
standing with both feet upon a javelin, to repeat 
these words: " O Janus, Jupiter, Mars, Romulus, 
Bellona, and ye Lares and Novensiles ! All ye 
heroes who dwell in heaven, and all ye gods who 
rule over us and our enemies, especially ye gods 
of hell ! I honour you, invoke you, and humbly 
intreat you to prosper the arms of the Romans, 
and to transfer all fear and terror from them to 
their enemies; and I do^ for the safety of the 
Roman people, and their legions, devote myself, 
and with myself the army and auxiliaries of the 
enemy, to the infernal gods, and the goddess of the 



earth." Decius then, girding his robe around him, 
mounted his horse, and rode full speed into the 
thickest of the enemy's battalions. The Latins 
were, for a while, thunderstruck at this spectacle: 
but at length recovering themselves, they discharg- 
ed a shower of darts, under which the consul fell. 

Note 6, page 182, col. 1. 

Lo ! Christian pennons streaming 

Red o'er the waters ! ikc. 

See Gibbon's animated description of the arri- 
val of five Christian ships, with men and provi- 
sions, for the succour of the besieged, not many 
days before the fall of Constantinople. — Decline 
and Fall of the Roman Empire, vol. xii. p. 215. 

Note 7, page 183, col. 1. 

As when the wind hath blown 

O'er Indian groves, &c. 

The summits of the lofty rocks in the Camatic, 
particularly about the Ghauts, are sometimes co- 
vered with the bamboo tree, which grows in thick 
clumps, and is of such uncommon aridity, that in 
the sultry season of the year the friction occasion- 
ed by a strong dry wind will literally produce 
sparks of fire, which frequently setting the woods 
in a blaze, exhibit to the spectator stationed in a 
valley surrounded by rocks, a magnificent, though 
imperfect circle of fire. — Notes to Kinderslc]/ s 
Specimens of Hindoo Ldterature. 

Note 8, page 184, col. 1. 

The snowy crown 

Of far Olympus, &c. 

Those who steer their westward course through 
the middle of the Propontis may at once descry the 
high lands of Thrace and Bithynia, and never 
lose sight of the lofty summit of Mount Olympus, 
covered with eternal snows. — Decline and Fall, 
<f-c. vol. iii. p. 8. 

Note 9, page 184, col. 2. 

^Mohammed's face 

Kindles beneath their aspect, <fcc. 

Mahomet 11. was greatly addicted to the study 
of astrology. His calculations in this science led 
him to fix upon the morning of the 29th of May 
as the fortunate hour for a general attack upon the 
city. 

Note 10, page 185, col. 2. 
Thy Georgian bride, &c. 
Constantino Palseologus was betrothed to a 
Georgian princess ; and the very spring which wit- 
nessed the fall of Constantinople had been fixed 
upon as the time for conveying the imperial bride 
to that city. 



THE LAST CONSTANTINE. 



193 



Note 11, page 186, col. 1. 

Those men are strangers here. 
Many of the adherents of Constantine, in his 
last noble stand for the liberties, or rather the 
honour, of a falling empire, were foreigners and 
chiefly Italians. 

Note 12, page 186, col. 2. 
Knowest thou the land, &c. 
This and the next line are an almost literal 
translation from a beautiful song of Goethe's : 
Kennst du das land, wo die zilronen bli'ihn 
Mil dunkeln laub die gold orangen gliihnl <fec. 

Note 13, page 186, col. 2. 

The idea expressed in this stanza is beautifully 
amplified in Scliiller's poem " Das Lied der 
Glocke." 

Note 14, page 187, col. 1. 
Hath the fierce phantom, &c. 
It is said to be a Greek superstition that the 
plague is announced by the heavy rolling of an 
invisible chariot, heard in the streets at midnight ; 
and also by the appearance of a gigantic spectre, 
who summons the devoted person by name. 

Note 15, page 187, col. 2. 

Ye smiled on banquets of despair, &c. 

Many instances of such banquets, given and 
shared by persons resolved upon death, might be 
adduced from ancient history. That of Vibius 
Virius, at Capua, is amongst the most memorable. 

Note 16, page 188, col. 1. 

Yon dome, the lode-star of all eyes. 

For a minute description of the marbles, jaspers, 
and porphyries, employed in the construction of 
St. Sophia, see The Decline and Fall, tj-c. vol. vii. 
p. 120. 

Note 17, page 188, col. 2. 

Nor is the balmy air of dayapring torn 
With battle-sounds, &c. 

The assault of the city took place at day- break, 
and the Turks were strictly enjoined to advance 
in silence, which had also been commanded, on 
pain of death, during the preceding night. This 
circumstance is finely alluded to by Miss Baillie, 
in her tragedy of Constantine Palseologus: 

"Silent shall be the march : nor drum, nor trump. 

Nor clash of arms, shall to the watchful foe 

Our near approach betray: silent and soft, 

As the paj-d's velvet foot on Lybia's sands, 

Slow stealing with crouched shoulders on her prey." 

Constantine Palaologus, Act iv. 

" The march and labour of thousands" must, 
however, as Gibbon observes, " have inevitably 
produced a strange confusion of discordant cla- 



mours, which reached the ears of the watchmen 

on the towers." 

Note 18, page 189, col. 1. 

The dark-browed ranks are risen. 

" After a conflict of two hours, the Greeks still 
maintained and preserved their advantage," says 
Gibbon. The strenuous exertions of the janiza- 
ries first turned the fortune of the day. 

Note 19, page 189, col. 2. 
From the Greek fire shoots up, &c. 
" A circumstance that distinguishes the siege of 
Constantinople is the reunion of the ancient and 
modern artillery. The bullet and the battering- 
ram were directed against the same wall ; nor had 
the discovery of gunpowder superseded the use of 
the liquid and unextinguishable fire." — Decline 
and Fall, <f-c., vol. xii. p. 213. 

Note 20, page 189, col. 2. 
And stanch the blood-drops, Genoa's fallen son ! 
" The immediate loss of Constantinople may be 
ascribed to the bullet, or arrow, which pierced the 
gauntlet of John Justiniani (a Genoese chief). 
The sight of his blood, and exqui.site pain, ap- 
palled the courage of the chief, whose arms and 
counsels were the firmest rampart of the city." — 
Decline and Fall, (f-c, vol. xii. p. 229. 

Note 21, page 190, col. 2. 

The owl upon Afrasiab's towers hath simg 
Her watch-song, <fcc. 

Mahomet II., on entering, after his victory, the 
palace of the Byzantine emperors, was strongly 
impressed with the silence and desolation which 
reigned within its precincts. A melancholy re- 
flection on the vicissitudes of human greatness 
forced itself on his mind, and he repeated an ele- 
gant distich of Persian poetry : " The spider has 
wove his web in the imperial palace, and the owl 
hath sung her watch-song on the towers of Afra- 
siab.' " — Decline and Fall, <f'c., vol. xii. p. 240. 

Note22, page 191,col. 2. 

Tlie bowl of liberty. 

One of the ceremonies by which the battle of 
Plataea was annually commemorated was, to crown 
with wine a cup called the Bowl of Liberty, which 
was afterwards poured forth in libation. 

Note 23, page 191, col. 2. 
In the Comneni's halls, &c. 
The Comneni were amongst the most distin- 
guished of the families who filled the Byzantine 
throne in the declining years of the eastern em- 
pire. 



194 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



(^VttU SOtlfifii* 



THE STORM OP DELPHI.* 

Far through the Delphian shades 

An Eastern trumpet rung ! 
And the startled eagle rushed on high, 
With sounding flight through the fiery sky, 
And banners o'er the shadowy glades, 

To the sweeping winds were flung. 

Banners, with deep-red gold 

All waving, as a flame, 
And a fitful glance from the bright spear-head 
On the dim wood-paths of the mountain shed. 
And a peal of Asia's war-notes told 

That in arms the Persian came. 

He came, with starry gems 

On his quiver and his crest; 
With starry gems, at whose heart the day 
Of the cloudless orient burning lay, 
And they cast a gleam on the laurel-stems, 

As onward his thousands pressed. 

But a gloom fell o'er their way, 

And a heavy moan went by ! 
A moan, yet not like the wind's low swell. 
When its voice grows wild amidst cave and dell, 
But a mortal murmur of dismay. 

Or a warrior's dying sigh ! 

A gloom fell o'er their way ! 

'T was not the shadow cast 
By the dark pine-boughs as they passed the blue 
Of the Grecian heavens with their solemn hue ; 
— The air was filled with a mightier sway, 

—But on the spearmen passed ! 

And hollow to their tread, 

Came the echoes of the ground. 
And banners drooped, as with dews o'erborne. 
And the wailing blast of the battle-horn 
Had an altered cadence, dull and dead, 

Of strange foreboding sound. 

— But they blew a louder strain. 
When the steep defiles were passed! 
And afar the crowned Parnassus rose, 
To sliine through heaven with his radiant snows. 
And in golden light the Delphian fane 
Before them stood at last ! 

In golden light it stood, 

'Midst the laurels gleaming lone. 



• See the account cited from Herodotua, in Mitford's Greece. 



For the Sun-God yet, with a lovely smile. 
O'er its graceful pillars looked awhile, 
Though the stormy shade on cliff and wood 
Grew deep, round its mountain-throne. 

And the Persians gave a shout ! 

But the marble-walls replied. 
With a clash of steel, and a sullen roar 
Like heavy wheels on the ocean-shore. 
And a savage trumpet's note pealed out, 

Till their hearts for terror died ! 

On the armour of the God, 

Then a viewless hand was laid ; 
There were helm and spear, with a clanging din. 
And corslet brought from the shrine within. 
From the inmost shrine of the dread abode, 

And before its front arrayed. 

And a sudden silence fell 
Through the dim and loaded air . 
On the vdld bird's wing, and the myrtle-spray, 
And the very founts, in their silvery way, 
With a weight of sleep came down the spell. 
Till man grew breathless there. 

But the pause was broken soon! 

'T was not by song or lyre ; 
For the Delphian maids had left their bowers. 
And the hearths were lone in the city's towers. 
But there burst a sound through the misty noon, 

That battle-noon of fire ! 

It burst from earth and heaven ! 

It rolled from crag and cloud ! 
For a moment of the mountain-blast. 
With a thousand stormy voices passed. 
And the purple gloom of the sky was riven, 

When the thunder pealed aloud. 

And the lightnings in their play 
Flashed forth, like javelins throwm; 
Like sun-darts winged fi-om the silver bow, 
They smote the spear and the turbaned brow. 
And the bright gems flew from the crests like spraf , 
And the banners were struck down ! 

And the massy oak-boughs crashed 

To the fire-bolts from on high. 
And the forest lent its billowy roar, 
While the glorious tempest onward bore, 
And lit the streams, as they foamed and dashed, 

With the fierce rain sweeping by. 



GREEK SONGS 



195 



Then rushed the Delphian men 

On the pale and scattered host; 
Like the joyous burst of a flashing wave, 
They rushed from tlie dim Corycian cave, 
And the singing blast o'er wood and glen 

Rolled on, with the spears they tossed. 

There were cries of wild dismay, 
There were shouts of warrior-glee, 
There were savage sounds of the tempest's mirth, 
That shook the realm of their eagle-birth ; 
But the mount of song, when they died away, 
Still rose, vrith its temple, free ! 

And the Paean swelled ere long, 

lo Pa3an ! from the fane ; 
lo Pifian ! for the war-array. 
On the crowned Parnassus riven that day ! 
— Thou shalt rise as free, thou mount of song ! 

With thy bounding streams again. 



II. 

THE BOWL OF LIBERTY.* 

Before the fiery sun, 
The sun that looks on Greece with cloudless eye. 
In the free air, and on the war-fiold won. 
Our fathers crowned the Bowl of Liberty. 

Amidst the tombs they stood. 
The tombs of heroes ! with the solemn skies. 
And the wide plain around, where patriot-blood 
Had steeped the soil in hues of sacrifice. 

They called the glorious dead, 
In the strong faith which brings the viewless nigh, 
And poured rich odours o'er their battle-bed, 
And bade them to the rite of Liberty. 

They called them from the shades, 
The golden-fruited shades, where minstrels tell 
How softer light th' immortal clime pervades, 
And music floats o'er meads of Asphodel. 

Then fast the bright red winet 
Flowed to their names who taught the world to die, 
And made the land's green turf a living shrine. 
Meet for the wreath and Bowl of Liberty. 



' This and the fullowin:j piece appeared originally in the 
New Monthly Magazine 

f For an account of this ceremony, anciently perf )rmed in 
commemoration of the battle ofPlataea, see Potler^s Antiqui- 
ties of Greece, vol. i. p. 339. 



So the rejoicing earth 
Took from her vines again the blood she gave, 
And richer flowers to deck the tomb drew birth 
From the free soil thus hallowed to the brave. 

We have the battle-fields, 
The tombs, the names, the blue majestic sky. 
We have the founts the purple vintage yields ; 
— When shall we crown the Bowl of Liberty ! 



III. 
THE VOICE OF SCIO. 

A VOICE from Scio's isle, 
A voice of song, a voice of old. 
Swept far as cloud or billow rolled. 

And earth was hushed the while. 

The souls of nations woke ! 
Where lies the land whose hills among. 
That voice of Victory hath not rung. 

As if a trumpet spoke 1 

To sky, and sea, and shore 
Of those whose blood, on Ilion's plain. 
Swept from the rivers to the main, 

A glorious tale it bore. 

Still, by our sun-bright deep. 
With all the fame that fiery lay 
Threw round them, in its rushing way. 

The sons of battle sleep. 

And kings their turf have crowned '. 
And pilgrims o'er the foaming wave 
Brought garlands there : so rest the brave, 

Who thus their bard have found ! 

A voice from Scio's isle, 
A voice as deep hath risen again ! 
As far shall peal its thrilling strain. 

Where'er our sun may smile ! 

Let not its tones expire ! 
Sucli power to waken earth and heaven, 
And might and vengeance, ne'er was given 

To mortal song or lyre ! 

Know ye not whence it comes? 
— From ruined hearths, from burning fanes. 
From kindred blood on yon red plains, 

From desolated homes ! 

'T is with us through the night • 
'T is on our hills, 't is in our sky — 
— Hear it, ye heavens ! when swords flash high, 

O'er the mid-waves of fight ! 



196 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



IV. 
THE SPARTAN'S MARCH.* 



"The Spartans used not the trumpet in their march into 
battle, says Thucydides, because they wislied not to excite 
the rage of their waniors. Their charging step was made to 
the ' Dorian mood of flutes and soft recorders.' The valour of 
a Spartan w&s too highly tempered to require a stunning or 
rousing impulse. His spirit was like a steed too proud for the 
spur." — Campbell on the Elegiac Poetry of Ike GrccJcs. 



'T WAS morn upon the Grecian hills, 
Where peasants dressed the vines, 

Sunlight was on Cithaeron's rills, 
Arcadia's rocks and pines. 

And brightly, through his reeds and flowers, 

Eurotas wandered by,. 
When a sound arose from Sparta's towers 

Of solemn harmony. 

Was it the hunters' choral strain 
To the woodland-goddess poured ? 

Did virgin-hands in Pallas' fane 
Strike the full-sounding chord "? 

But helms were glancing on the stream, 

Spears ranged in close array, 
And shields flung back a glorious beam 

To the morn of a fearful day! 

And the mountain-echoes of the land 
Swelled through the deep blue sky, 

While to soft strains moved forth a band 
Of men that moved to die. 

They marched not with the trumpet's blast, 

Nor bade the horn peal out. 
And the laurel groves, as on they passed, 

Rung with no battle-shout ! 

They asked no clarion's voice to fire 
Their souls with an impulse higli ; 

But the Dorian reed and the Spartan lyre 
For the sons of liberty ! 

And still sweet flutes, their path around, 

Sent forth Eolian breath ; 
They needed not a sterner sound 

To marshal them for death ! 



So moved they calmly to their field, 

Thence never to return, 
Save bearing back the Spartan shield. 

Or on it proudly borne ! 



V. 

THE URN AND SWORD. 

They sought for treasures in the tomb. 
Where gentler hands were wont to spread 
Fresh boughs and flowers of purple bloom. 
And sunny ringlets, for the dead.* 

They scattered far the greensward-heap. 
Where once those hands the bright wine poured ; 
— What found they in the home of sleep ^ 
A mouldering urn, a shivered sword ! 

An urn, which held the dust of one 
Who died when hearths and shrines were free ; 
A sword, whose work was proudly done, 
Between our mountains and the sea. 

And these are treasures ! — undismayed, 
Still for the suffering land we trust. 
Wherein the past its fame hath laid. 
With freedom's sword, dnd valor's dust. 



VI. 
THE MYRTLE-BOUGH. 

Still green along our sunny shore 

The flowering myrtle waves, 
As when its fragrant boughs of yore 

Were offered on the graves ; 
The graves, wherein our mighty men 
Had rest, unviolated then. 

Still green it waves ! as when the hearth 

Was sacred through the land ; 
And fearless was the banquet's mirth, 

And free the minstrel's hand ; 
And guests, with shining myrtle crowned. 
Sent the wreathed lyre and wine-cup round. 

Still green ! as when on holy ground 

The tyrant's blood was poured : 
— Forget ye not what garlands bound 

The young deliverer's sword ! 
— Though earth may shroud Harmodius now, 
We still have sword and myrtle-bough! 



* Originally published in the Edinburgh Magazine. 



' See Potter's Gri;cian Antiquities, vol. ii. p. 234. 



SONGS OP THE CID. 



197 



,^ons!$ of tfit eitr.^ 



The following ballads are not translations from 
the Spanish, but are founded upon some of the 
' wild and wonderful' traditions preserved in the 
romances of that language, and the ancient poem 
of the Cid. 



THE CID'S DEPARTURE INTO EXILE. 

With sixty knights in his gallant train, 
Went forth the Campeador of Spain; 
For wild sierras and plains afar, 
He left the lands of his own Bivar.(l) 

To march o'er field, and to watch in tent, 
From his home in good Castile he went ; 
To the wasting siege and the battle's van, 
— For the noble Cid was a banished man ! 

Through his olive-woods the morn-breeze played. 
And his native streams wild music made. 
And clear in the sunshine his vineyards lay, 
When for march and combat he took his way. 

With a thoughtful spirit his way he took. 
And he turned his steed for a parting look. 
For a parting look at his own fair towers ; 
— Oh ! the Exile's heart hath weary hours ! 

The pennons were spread, and the band arrayed, 
But the Cid at the threshold a moment stayed; 
It was but a moment — the halls were lone, 
And the gates of his dwelhng all open thrown. 

There was not a steed in the empty stall, 
Nor a spear nor a cloak on the naked wall. 
Nor a hawk on the perch, nor a seat at the door. 
Nor the sound of a step on the hollow floor 1(2) 

Then a dim tear swelled to the warrior's eye, 
As the voice of his native groves went by ; 
And he said — " My foemen their wish have won — 
— Now the will of God be in all things done!" 

But the trumpet blew, with its note of cheer. 
And the winds of the morning swept off the tear. 
And the fields of his glory lay distant far, 
-—He is gone from the towers of his own Bivarl 



' Originally published in the New Monthly Magazine. 



THE CID'S DEATH-BED. 

It was an hour of grief and fear 

Within Valencia's walls. 
When the blue spring-heaven lay still and clear 

Above her marble halls. 

There were pale cheeks and troubled eyes, 

And steps of hurrying feet. 
Where the Zambra's(3) notes were wont to rise, 

Along the sunny street. 

It was an hour of fear and grief, 

On bright Valencia's shore. 
For death was busy with her chief, 

The noble Campeador. 

The Moor-king's barks were on the deep, 

With sounds and signs of war. 
For the Cid was passing to his sleep. 

In the silent Alcazar. 

No moan was heard through the towers of state. 

No weeper's aspect seen. 
But by the couch Ximena sate. 

With pale yet steadfast mien.(4) 

Stillness was round the leader's bed, 

Warriors stood mournful nigh, 
And banners, o'er his glorious head. 

Were drooping heavily. 

And feeble grew the conquering hand. 

And cold the valiant breast ; 
— He had fought the battles of the land, 

And his hour was come to rest. 

What said the Ruler of the field ? 

— His voice is faint and low ; 
The breeze that creeps o'er his lance and shield 

Hath louder accents now. 

" Raise ye no cry, and let no moan 

Be made when I depart ; 
The Moor must hear no dirge's tone, 

Be ye of mighty heart ! 

" Let the cymbal-clash and the trumpet-strain 
From your walls ring far and shrill, 

And fear ye not, for the saints of Spain 
Shall grant you victory still. 

" And gird my form with mail- array. 
And set me on my steed. 



198 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



So go ye forth on your funeral-way, 
And God shall give you speed. 

" Go with the dead in the front of war, 

All armed with sword and helm, 
And march by the camp of King Bucar, 

For the good Castilian realm. 

" And let me slumber in the soil 

Which gave my fathers birth ; 
I have closed my day of battle-toil. 

And my course is done on earth." 

— ^Now wave, ye glorious banners, wave !(5) 
Through the lattice a wind sweeps by, 

And the arms, o'er the death-bed of the brave, 
Send forth a hollow sigh. 

Now wave, ye banners of many a fight ! 

As the fresh wind o'er you sweeps ; 
The wind and the banners fall hushed as night. 

The Campeador — he sleeps ! 

Sound the battle-horn on the breeze of morn, 
And swell out the trumpet's blast, 

Till the notes prevail o'er the voice of wail, 
For the noble Cid hath passed ! 



THE CID'S FUNERAL PROCESSION. 

The Moor had beleaguered Valencia's towers. 
And lances gleamed up through her citron-bowers, 
And the tents of the desert had girt her plain, 
And camels were trampling the vines of Spain ; 
For the Cid was gone to rest. 

There were men from wilds where the death-wind 

sweeps. 
There were spears from hills where the lion sleeps. 
There were bows from sands where the ostrich runs. 
For the shrill horn of Afric had called her sons 
To the battles of the West. 

The midnight bell, o'er thedim seas heard 
Like the roar of waters, the air had stirred ; 
The stars were shining o'er tower and wave. 
And the camp lay hushed, as a.wizard's cave ; 
But the Christians woke«that night. 

They reared the Cid on his barbed steed, 
Like a warrior mailed for the hour of need. 
And they fixed the sword in the cold right hand. 
Which had fought so well for his fathers' land, 

And the shield from his neck hung bright. 

There was arming heard in Valencia's halls, 
There was vigil kept on the rampart walls ; 
Stars had not faded, nor clouds turned red. 
When the knights had girded the noble dead. 
And the burial-train moved out. 



With a measured pace, as the pace of one. 
Was the still death-march of the host begun ; 
With a silent step went the cuirassed bands, 
Like a lion's tread on the burning sands. 
And they gave no battle-shout. 

When the first went forth it was midnight deep. 
In heaven was the moon, in the camp was sleep. 
When the last through the city's gates had gone. 
O'er tent and rampart the bright day shone. 
With a sun-burst from the sea. 

T here were knights five hundred went armed before, 
And Bermudez the Cid's green standard bore ;(6) 
To its last fair field, with the break of morn, 
Was the glorious banner in silence borne. 
On the glad wind streaming free. 

And the Campeador came stately then, 
Like a leader circled with steel-clad men ! 
The helmet was down o'er the face of the dead, 
But his steed went proud, by a warrior led. 
For he knew that the Cid was there. 

He was there, the Cid, with his own good sword, 
And Ximena following her noble lord ; 
Her eye was solemn, her step was slow. 
But there rose not a sound of war or wo, 
Not a whisper on the air. 

The halls in Valencia were still and lone. 
The churches were empty, the masses done; 
There was not a voice through the wide streets 

far. 
Not a foot-fall heard in the Alcazar, 

— So the burial-train moved out, 

With a measured pace, as the pace of one. 
Was the still death-march of the host begun; 
With a silent step went the cuirassed bands, 
Like a lion's tread on the burning sands ; 
— And they gave no battle-shout. 

But the deep hills pealed with a cry ere long. 
When the Christians burst on the Paynim throng ! 
With a sudden flash of the lance and spear, 
And a charge of the war-steed in full career, 
It was Alvar Fanez came !(7) 

He that was wrapt with no funeral shroud. 
Had passed before like a threatening cloud ! 
And the storm rushed down on the tented plain, 
And the Archer-Q,ueen,(8) with her bands lay 
slain, 

For the Cid upheld his fame. 

Then a terror fell on the King Bucar, 
And the Lybian kings who had joined his war; 
And their hearts grew heavy, and died away, 
And their hands could not wield an assagay, 
For the dreadful things they saw! 



SONGS OF THE CID. 



199 



For it seemed where Minaya his onset made, 
There were seventy thousand knights arrayed, 
All white as the snow on Nevada's steep, 
And they came like the foam of a roaring deep ; 
— 'T was a sight of fear and awe ! 

And the crested form of a warrior tali, 
With a sword of fire, went before them all ; 
With a sword of fire, and a banner pale, 
And a blood-red cro§s on his shadowy mail. 
He rode in the battle's van ! 

There was fear in the path of his dim white horse, 
There was death in the Giant-warrior's course ! 
Where his banner streamed witii its ghostly light 
Where his sword blazed out, there was hurrying 
flight, 
For it seemed not the sword of man ! 

The field and the river grew darkly red. 
As the kings and the leaders of Afric fled ; 
There was work for the men of the Cid that day! 
— They were weary at eve, when they ceased to 
slay. 

As reapers whose task is done ! 

The kings and the leaders of Afric fled ! 
The sails of their galleys in haste were spread ; 
But the sea had its share of the Paynim-slain, 
And the bow of the desert was broke in Spain ; 
— So the Cid to his grave passed on ! 



THE CID'S RISING. 

'T WAS the deep mid-watch of the silent night, 

And Leon in slumber lay, 
When a sound went forth, in rushing night, 
Like an army on its way !(9) 
In the stillness of the hour. 
When the dreams of sleep have power. 
And men forget the day. 

Through the dark and lonely streets it went, 

Till the slumberers woke in dread ; 
The sound of a passing armament. 
With the charger's stony tread. 
There was heard no trumpet's peal, 
But the heavy tramp of steel, 
As a host's, to combat led. 

Through the dark and lonely streets it passed. 

And the hollow pavement rang. 
And the towers, as with a sweeping blast, 
Rocked to the stormy clang ! 
But the march of the viewless train 
Went on to a royal fane. 

Where a priest his night-hymn sang. 

There was knocking that shook the marble floor, 
And a voice at the gate, which said — 



" That the Cid Ruy Diez, the Campeador, 
Was there in his arms arrayed ; 
And that with him, from the tomb, 
Had the Count Gonzalez come, 
With a host, uprisen to aid ! 

" And they came for the buried king that lay 

At rest in that ancient fane ; 

For he must be armed on the battle-day. 

With them to deliver Spain I" 

— Then the march went sounding on. 

And the Moors, by noontide sun, 

Were dust on Tolosa's plain. 



NOTES. 

Note 1, page 197, col. 1. 

Bivar, the supposed birth-place of the Cid, was 
a castle, about two leagues from Burgos. 

Note 2, page 197, col. 1. 

Tornaba la cabeza, e estabalos catando : 
Vio puertas abiertas, e uzos sin canados, 
Alcandaras vacias, sin pielles e sin mantos : 
E sin falcones, e sin adtores mudados. 
Sospiro mio Cid. Poein of the Cid. 

Note 3, page 197, col. 2. 

The zambra, a Moorish dance. When Valencia 
was taken by the Cid, many of the Moorish fami- 
lies chose to remain there, and reside under his 
government. 

Note 4, page 197, col. 2. 

The calm fortitude of Ximena is frequently 
alluded to in the romances. 

Note 5, page 198, col. 1. 

Banderas antiguas, tristes 
De victorias un tiempo amadas, 
Treniolando estan al viento 
Y lloran aunque no hablan, &c. 
Herder's translation of these romances (Dor 
Cid, nach Spanischen Romanzen besungen) are 
remarkable for their spirit and scrupulous fidelity. 

Note 6, page 198, col. 2. 

"And while they stood there, they saw the Cid 
Ruy Diez coming up with three hundred knights; 
for he had not been in the battle, and they knew 
his green j>en7ion." — Southei/'s Chronicle of the 
Cid. 

Note 7, page 198, col. 2. 

Alvar Fanez Minaya, one of the Cid's mos*. 
distinguished warriors. 



200 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



Note 8, page 198, col. 2. 

The archer queen 

A Moorish Amazon, who, with a band of fe- 
male warriors , accompanied King Bucar from 
Africa. Her arrows were so unerring, that she 
obtained the name of the Star of archers. 
Una Mora muy gallarda, 
Gran maestra en el tirar, 



Con saetas del Aljava, 
De los arcos de Turquia 
Estrella era nombrada, 
Por la destreza que avia 
En el herir de la Xara, 

Note9, page 199, col. 1. 
See Southey's Chronicle of the Cid, p. 352. 



ARABELLA STUART. 

"The Lady Arabella," as she has been fre- 
quently entitled, was descended from Margaret, 
eldest daughter of Henry VII. and consequently 
allied by birth to Elizabeth, as well as James I, 
This affinity to the throne proved the misfortune 
of her life, as the jealousies which it constantly 
excited in her royal relatives, who were anxious to 
prevent her marrying, shut her out from the en- 
joyment of that domestic happiness which her 
heart appears to have so fervently desired. By a 
secret, but early discovered union with William 
Seymour, son of Lord Beauchamp, she alarmed 
the cabinet of James, and the wedded lovers were 
immediately placed in separate confinement. From 
this they found means to concert a romantic plan 
of escape ; and having won over a female attend- 
ant, by whose assistance she was disguised in 
male attire, Arabella, though faint from recent 
sickness and suffering, stole out in the night, and 
at last reached an appointed spot, where a boat 
and servants were in waiting. She embarked; 
and, at break of day, a French vessel, engaged to 
receive her, was discovered and gained. As Sey- 
mour, however, had not yet arrived, she was de- 
sirous that the vessel should lie at anchor for him ; 
but this wish was overruled by her companions, 
■who, contrary to her entreaties, hoisted sail, 
"which," says D'IsraeU, "occasioned so fatal a 
termination to this romantic adventure. Seymour, 
indeed, had escaped from the Tower ;— he reached 
the wharf, and found his confidential man waiting 
with a boat, and arrived at Lee. The time passed ; 
the waves were rising; Arabella was not there; 
but in the distance he descried a vessel. Hiring 
a fisherman to take him on board, he discovered, 
to his grief, on hailing it, that it was not the 
French ship charged with his Arabella; in despair 
and confusion he found another ship from New- 
castle, which for a large sum altered its course, 
and landed him in Flanders." — Arabella, mean- 
time, while imploring her attendants to linger, and 



earnestly looking out for the expected boat of her 
husband, was overtaken in Calais Roads by a 
vessel in the King's service, and brought back to 
a captivity, under the suffering of which her mind 
and constitution gradually sank. " What passed 
in that dreadful imprisonment, can not perhaps be 
recovered for authentic history, — but enough is 
known ; that her mind grew impaired, that she 
finally lost her reason, and, if the duration of her 
imprisonment was short, that it was only termi- 
nated by her death. Some eflusions, oflen began 
and never ended, written and erased, incoherent 
and rational, yet remain among her papers." — 
D^ Israelis Curiosities of Literature. The fol- 
lowing poem, meant as some record of her fate, 
and the imagined fluctuations of her thoughts and 
feelings, is supposed to commence during the 
time of het first imprisonment, while her mind was 
yet buoyed up by the consciousness of Seymour's 
affection, and the cherished hope of eventual deli- 
verance. 



And is not love in vain, 
Torture enough without a Uving tomb'? 

Byron. 
Fermossi al fin il cor che baizo tanto. 

Pindemonte. 

I. 

'TwAS but a dream ! — I saw the stag leap free, 
Under the boughs where early birds were sing- 
ing, 
I stood, o'ershadowed by the greenwood tree, 

And heard, it seemed, a sudden bugle ringing 
Far through a royal forest: then the fawn 
Shot, like a gleam of light, from grassy lawfl 
To secret covert ; and the smooth turf shook. 
And lilies quivered by the glade's lone brook, 
And young leaves trembled, as, in fleet career, 
A princely band, with horn, and'hound, and spear, 
Like a rich masque swept forth. I saw the dance 
Of their white plumes, that bore a silvery glance 



RECORDS OP WOMAN. 



201 



Into the deep wood's heart ; and all passed by, 
Save one — I met the smile of one clear eye, 
Flashing out joy to mine. — Yes, thou wert there, 
Seymour! a soft wind blew the clustering hair 
Back from thy gallant brow, as thou didst rein 
Thy courser, turning from that gorgeous train, 
And fling, methought, thy hunting spear away. 
And, lightly graceful in thy green array. 
Bound to my side ; and we, that met and parted. 

Ever in dread of some dark watchful power. 
Won back to childhood's trust, and, fearless- 
hearted, 

Blent the glad fulness of our thoughts that hour, 
Ev'n like the mingling of sweet streams, beneath 
Dim woven leaves, and midst the floating breath 
Of hidden forest flowers. 

II. 

'T is past! — I wake, 
A captive, and alone, and far from thee, 
My love and friend ! Yet fostering for thy sake, 

A quenchless hope of happiness to be ; 
And feeling still my woman's spirit strong, 
In the deep faith which lifts from earthly wrong, 
A heavenward glance. I know, I know our love, 
Shall yet call gentle angels from above. 
By its undying fervour; and prevail. 
Sending a breath, as of the spring's first gale. 
Thro' hearts now cold ; and, raising its bright 

face. 
With a free gush of sunny tears erase 
The characters of anguish ; in this trust 
I bear, I strive, I bow not to the dust, 
That I may bring thee back no faded form. 
No bosom chilled and blighted by the storm. 
But all my youth's first treasures, when we meet, 
Making past sorrow, by communion, sweet. 

III. 

And thou too art in bonds ! — yet droop thou not, 
Oh, my beloved ! — there is one hopeless lot. 
But one, and that not ours. Beside the dead 
There sits the grief that mantles up its head. 
Loathing the laughter and proud pomp of light, 
When darkness from the vainly-doting siglit. 
Covers its beautiful!(l) If thou wcrt gone 

To the grave's bosom, with thy radiant brow, — 
If thy deep-thrilling voice, with that low tone 

Of earnest tenderness, whicli now, ev'n now. 
Seems floating thro' my soul, were music taken 
For ever from this world, — oh ! thus forsaken, 
Could I bear onl — thou liv'st, thou liv'st, thou 'rt 

mine ! 
With this glad thought I make my heart a shrine, 
And by the lamp whicli quenchless there shall 

burn. 
Sit, a lone watcher for the day's return. 



IV. 

And lo ! the joy that cometh with the morning, 

Brightly victorious o'er the hours of care ! 
I have not watched in vain, serenely scorning 

The wild and busy whispers of despair ! 
Thou hast sent tidings as of heaven. — I wait 

The hour, the sign, for blessed flight to thee. 
Oh ! for the skylark's wing that seeks its mate 

As a star shoots ! — but on the breezy sea 
We shall meet soon. — To think of such an hour! 

Will not my heart, o'erburdened by its bliss,- 
Faint and give way within me, as a flower 

Bore down and perishing by noontide's ki.ss"? 
Yet shall 1 fear that lot 1 — the perfect rest, 
The full deep joy of dying on thy breast. 
After long-suflering wonl So rich a close 
Too seldom crowns with peace affection's woes, 

V. 

Sunset ! — I tell each moment — from the skies 

The last red splendour floats along my wall, 
Like a king's banner! — Now it melts, it dies! 

I see one star — I hear — 'twas not the call, 
Th' expected voice ; my quick heart throbbed too 

soon. 
I must keep vigil till yon rising moon 
Shower down less golden light. Beneath her beam 
Through my lone lattice poured, I sit and dream 
Of summer lands afar, where holy love. 
Under the vine, or in the citron-grove. 
May breathe from terror. 

Now the night grows deep. 
And silent as its clouds, ami full of sleep. 
I hear my veins beat. — Hark ! a bell's slow chime, 
My heart strikes with it. — Yet again — 't is time ! 
A step I — a voice ! — or but a rising breeze 1 
Hark ! — haste ! — I come, to meet thee on the seas, 
♦ ♦♦***♦» 

VI. 
Now never more, oh I never, in the worth 
Of its pure cause, let sorrowing love on earth 
Trust fondly — never more ! — the hope is crushed 
That lit my life, the voice within me hushed 
That spoke sweet oracles , and I return 
To lay my youth, as in a burial-urn, 
Where sunshine may not find it. — All is lost ! 
No tempest met our barks — no billow tossed ; 
Yet were they severed, e'en as we must be. 
That so have loved, .so striven our hearts to free 
From their close-coiling fate I In vain — in vain ! 
The dark links meet, and clasp themselves again, 
And press out life. — Upon the deck I stood. 
And a white sail came gliding o'er the flood. 
Like some proud bird of ocean ; then mine eye 
Strained out, one moment earlier to descry 
The form it ached for, and the bark's career 
Seemed slow to that fond yearning : It drew near. 



202 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



Fraught with our foes ! — What boots it to recall 
The strife, the tears 1 Once more a prison-wall 
Shuts the green hills and woodlands from my sight, 
And joyous glance of waters to the Ught, 
And thee, my Seymour, thee ! 

I will not sink ! 
Thou, thou hast rent the heavy chain that bound 
thee : 
And this shall be my strength — ^the joy to think 
That thou raayst wander with heaven's breath 
around thee ; 
And all the laughing sky! This thought shall yet 
Shine o'er my heart, a radiant amulet, 
Guarding it from despair. Thy bonds are broken, 
And unto me, I know, thy true love's token 
S hall one day be deliverance, though the years 
Lie dim between, o'erhung with mists of tears. 

VII. 

My friend, ray friend ! where art thou 1 Day by 

Jay, 
Gliding, like some dark mournful stream, away, 
My silent youth flows from me. Spring, the while. 

Comes and rains beauty on the kindhng boughs 
Round hall and hamlet; Summer, with her smile, 

Fills the green forest; — young hearts breathe 
their vows ; 
Brothers long parted meet ; fair children rise 
Round the glad board ; Hope laughs from loving 

eyes : 
All this is in the world !— These joys he sown, 
The dew of every path — On one alone 
Their freshness may not fall— the stricken deer, 
Dying of thirst with all the waters near. 

VIII. 
Ye are from dingle and fresh glade, ye flowers ! 

By some kind hand to cheer my dungeon sent; 

O'er you the oak shed down the summer showers. 

And the lark's nest was where your bright cups 

bent, 

Cluivering to breeze and rain-drop, like the sheen 

Of twilight stars. On you Heaven's eye hath 

been. 
Through the leaves, pouring its dark sultry blue 
Into your glowing hearts; the bee to you 
Hath murmured, and the rill.— JNIy soul grows 

faint 
With passionate yearning, as its quick dreams 

paint 
Your haunts by dell and stream, — the green, the 

free. 
The full of all sweet sound, — the shut from me! 

IX. 

There went a swift bird singing past my cell — 
O Love and Freedom ! ye are lovely things ! 
With you the peasant on the hills may dwell, 



And by the streams ; but I — the blood of kings, 
A proud, unmingling river, through my veins 
Flows in lone brightness, — and its gifts are chains! 
Kings ! — I had silent visions of deep bliss. 
Leaving their thrones far distant, and for this 
I am cast under their triumphal car. 
An insect to be crushed. — Oh ! Heaven is far, — 
Earth pitiless ! 

Dost thou forget me, Seymour 1 I am proved 
So long, so sternly ! Seymour, my beloved ! 
There are such tales of holy marvels done 
By strong afliction, of deliverance won 
Through its prevailing power ! Are these things 

told 
Till the young weep with rapture, and the old 
Wonder, yet dare not doubt, — and thou, oh ! thou, 

Dost thou forget me in my hope's decay 1 — 
Thoucanstnot! — through the silentnight,ev'n now, 

I, that need prayer so much, awake and pray 
Still first for thee. — Oh ! gentle, gentle friend I 
How shall I bear this anguish to the end 1 

Aid ! — comes there yet no aid ? — the voice of blood 
Passes Heaven's gate, ev'n ere the crimson flood 
Sinks through the greensward ! — is there not a cry, 
From the wrung heart, of power, through agony, 
To pierce the clouds 7 Hear, Mercy ! hear me I 

None 
That bleed and weep beneath the smiling sun, 
Have heavier cause! — yet hear! — my soul. grows 

dark — 
Who hears the last shriek from the sinking bark. 
On the mid seas, and with the storm alone. 
And bearing to th' abyss, unseen, unknown, 
Its freight of human hearts 1— th' o'ermastering 

wave ! 
Who shall tell how it rushed — and none to save ? 

Thou hast forsaken me ! I feel, I know, 
There would be rescue if this were not so. 
Thou'rt at the chase, thou'rt at the festive board, 
Thou'rt where thercd wine free and highis poured, 
Thou'rt where the dancers meet !— a magic glass 
Is set within my soul, and proud shapes pass, 
Flushing it o'er with pomp from bower and hall ; — 
I see one shadow, stateliest there of all, — 
Thine ! — What dost thou amidst the bright and fair, 
Whispermg light words, and mocking my despair? 
It is not well of thee ! — my love was more 
Than fiery song may breathe, deep thought explore. 
And there thou smilest, while my heart is dying, 
With all its blighted hopes around it lying; 
Ev'n thou, on whom they hung theirlast green leaf- 
Yet smile, smile on! too bright art thou for grief! 

Death ! — what, is a death a locked and treasured 

thing. 
Guarded by swords of fire ?(2) a hidden spring, 



RECORDS OF WOMAN. 



203 



A fabled fruit, that I should thus endure, 
As if the world within me held no cure 7 
Wherefore not spread free wings — Heaven, Hea- 
ven ! control 
These thoughts — they rush — I look into my soul 
As down a gulf, and tremble at th' array 
Of fierce forms crowding it ! Give strength to pray. 
So shall their dark host pass. 

The storm is stilled. 

Father in Heaven! Thou, only thou, canst sound 
The heart's great deep, with floods of anguish 
filled, 

For human life too fearfully profound. 
Therefore, forgive, my Father! if Thy child, 
Rocked on its heaving darkness, hath grown wild. 
And sinned in her despair ! It well may be, 
That Thou wouldst lead my spirit back to Thee, 
By the crushed hope too long on this world poured, 
The stricken love which hath perchance adored 
A mortal in Thy place ! Now let me strive 
With Thy strong arm no more ! Forgive, forgive ! 
Take me to peace ! 

And peace at last is nigh. , 
A sign is on my brow, a token sent 

Th' o'erwcaried dust, from home : no breeze flits by. 
But calls me with a strange sweet whisper, blent 

Of many mysteries. 

Hark ! tlie warning tone 
Deepens — its word is Death. Alone, alone, 
And sad in youth, but chastened, I depart, 
Bowing to heaven. Yet, yet my woman's heart 
Shall wake a spirit and a power to bless, 
Ev'n in this hour's o'ershadowing fearfulness. 
Thee, its first love! — oh! tender still, and true! 
Be it forgotten if mine anguish threw 
Drops from its bitter fountain on thy name, 
Though but a moment. 

Now, with fainting frame, 
With soul just lingering on the flight begun, 
To bind for thee its last dim thoughts in one, 
I bless thee ! Peace be on thy noble head. 
Years of bright fame, when I am with the dead ! 
I bid this prayer survive me, and retain 
Its might, again to bless thee, and again ! 
Thou hast been gathered into my dark fate 
Too much ; too long, for my sake, desolate 
Hath been thine exiled youth ; but now take back, 
From dying haiids, thy freedom, and retrack 
(After a few kind tears for her whose days 
Went out in dreams of thee) the sunny ways 
Of hope, and find thou happiness I Yet send, 
Ev'n then, in silent hours a thought, dear friend ! 
Down to my voiceless chamber ; for thy love 
Hath been to me all gifts of earth above, 



Though bought with burning tears ! It is the sting 
Of death to leave that vainly-precious thing 
In this cold world ! What were it then, if thou, 
With thy fond eyes, wert gazing on me now "? 
Too keen a pang ! — Farewell I and yet once more, 
Farewell ! — the passion of long years I pour 
Into that word : thou hear'st not, — but the wo 
And fervour of its tones may one day flow 
To thy heart's holy place ; there let them dwell — 
We shall o'ersweep the grave to meet — Farewell ! 



THE BRIDE OF THE GREEK ISLE.* 



Fear!— I'm a Greek, and hovsr should I fear death? 
A slave, and wherefore should I dread my freedom 7 



I will not live degraded. — Sardanapatus. 



Come from the woods with the citron-flowers, 
Come with your lyres for the festal hours, 
Maids of bright Scio ! They came, and the breeze 
Bore their sweet songs o'er tlic Grecian seas ; — 
They came, and Eudora stood robed and crown- 
ed. 
The bride of the morn, with her train around. 
Jewels flashed out from her braided ifair, 
Like starry dews midst the roses there ; 
Pearls on her bosom quivering shone, 
Heaved by her heart through its golden zone ; 
But a brow, as those gems of the ocean pale, 
Gleamed from beneath her transparent veil; 
Changeful and faint was her fair cheek's hue, 
Tho' clear as a flower which the light ' looks 

through ; 
And the glance of her dark resplendent eye, 
For the aspect of woman at times too high, 
Lay floating in mists, which the troubled stream 
Of the soul sent up o'er its fervid beam. 

She looked on the vine at her father's door, 

Like one that is leaving his native shore ; 

She hung o'er the myrtle once called her own, 

As it greenly waved by the threshold stone; 

She turned — and her mother's gaze brought back 

Each hue of her childhood's faded track. 

Oh I hush the song, and let her tears 

Flow to the dream of her early years ! 

Holy and pure are the drops that fall 

When the young bride goes from her father's hall; 

She goes unto love yet untried and new. 

She parts from love which hath still been true ; 



Founded on a circumstance rel.aled In the Second Series 
of the Curiosities of Literature, and forming part of a pictuia 
in the " Painted Biography" there described. 



204 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



Mute be the song and the choral strain, 

Till her heart's deep well-spring is clear again ! 

She wept on her mother's faithful breast, 

Like a babe that sobs itself to rest; 

She wept — yet laid her hand awhile 

In his that waited her dawning smile, 

Her soul's affianced, nor cherished less 

For the gush of nature's tenderness! 

She lifted her graceful head at last — 

The choking swell of her heart was past ; 

And her lovely thoughts from their cells found 

way 
In the sudden flow of a plaintive lay.(3) 



THE BRIDE S FAREWELL. 

Why do I weep? — to leave the vine 

Whose clusters o'er me bend, — 
The myrtle — yet, oh ! call it mine ! — 

The flowers I loved to tend. 
A thousand thoughts of all things dear, 

Like shadows o'er me sweep, 
I leave my sunny childhood here. 

Oh, therefore let me weep ! 

I leave thee, sister ! we have played 

Through many a joyous hour. 
Where the silvery green of the olive shade 

Hung din»o'er fount and bower. 
Yes, thou and I, by stream, by shore, 

In song, in prayer, in sleep. 
Have been as we may be no more — 

Kind sister, let me weep ! 

I leave thee, father I Eve's bright moon 

Must now light other feet. 
With the gathered grapes, and the lyre in tunc, 

Thy homeward step to greet. 
Thou in whose voice, to bless thy child, 

Lay tones of love so deep, 
Whose eye o'er all my youth hath smiled — 

I leave thee! let me weep ! 

Mother! I leave thee! on thy breast, 

Pouring out joy and wo, 
I have found that holy place of rest 

Still changeless, — yet I go ! 
Lips, that have lulled me with your strain, 

Eyes, that have watched my sleep ! 
Will earth give love like yours again 1 

Sweet mother ! let me weeo ! 



And like a slight young tree, that throws 
The weight of rain from its drooping boughs. 
Once more she wept. But a changeful thing 
Is the human heart, as a mountain spring, 
That works its way through the torrent's foam. 
To the bright pool near it, the lily's home ! 



It is well ! — the cloud, on her soul that lay. 
Hath melted in glittering drops away. 
Wake again, mingle, sweet flute and lyre ! 
She turns to her lover, she leaves her sire. 
Mother ! on earth it must still be so. 
Thou rearest the lovely to see them go ! 

They are moving onward, the bridal throng. 
Ye may track their way by the swells of song; 
Ye may catch thro' the foUage their white robes' 

gleam, 
Like a swan midst the reeds of a shadowy stream. 
Their arms bear up garlands, their gliding tread 
Is over the deep-veined violet's bed ; 
They have Ught leaves around them, blue skies 

above. 
An arch for the triumph of youth and love ! 

II. 

Still and sweet was the home that stood 
In the flowering depths of a Grecian wood. 
With the soft green light o'er its low roof spread, 
As if from the glow of an emerald shed, 
Pouring through lime-leaves that mingled on high, 
Asleep in the silence of noon's clear sky. 
Citrons amidst their dark foliage glowed. 
Making a gleam round the lone abode ; 
Laurels o'erhung it, whose faintest shiver 
Scattered out rays like a glancing river; 
Stars of the jasmine its pillars crowned, 
Vine-stalks its lattice and walls had bound, 
And brightly before it a fountain's play 
Flung showers through a thicket of glossy bay. 
To a cypress which rose in that flashing rain. 
Like one tall shaft of some fallen fane. 

And thither lanthis had brought his bride, 
And the guests were met by that fountain-side ; 
They lifted the veil from Eudora's face. 
It smiled out softly in pensive grace, 
With lips of love, and a brow serene. 
Meet for the soul of the deep wood-scene. — 
Bring wine, bring odours ! — the board is spread — 
Bring roses ! a chaplet for every head ! 
The wine-cups foamed, and the rose was showered 
On the young and fair from the world embowered, 
The sun looked not on them in that sweet shade, 
The winds amid scented boughs were laid ; 
But there came by fits, through some wavy tree, 
A sound and a gleam of the moaning sea. 

Hush ! be still ! — was that no more 
Than the murmur from the shore? 
Silence ! — did thick rain-drops beat 
On the grass like trampling feet? — 
Fling down the goblet, and draw the sword I 
The groves are filled with a pirate-horde ! 
Through the dim olives their sabres shine ; — - 
Now must the red blood stream for wine ! 



RECORDS OF WOMAN. 



205 



The youth from the banquet to battle sprang, 
The woods with the shriek of the maidens rang ; 
Under the golden-fruited boughs 
There were flashing poniards and darkening brows, 
Footsteps, o'er garland and lyre that fled ; 
And the dying soon on a greensward bed. 

Eudora, Eudora ! thou dost not fly ! — 

She saw but lanthis before her lie, 

With the blood from his breast in a gushing flow, 

Like a child's large tears in its hour of wo, 

And a gathering film in his Ufted eye. 

That sought his young bride out mournfully. — 

She knelt down beside him, her arms she wound, 

Like tendrils, his drooping neck around, 

As if the passion of that fond grasp 

Might chain in life with its ivy-clasp. 

But they tore her thence in her wild despair, 

The sea's fierce rovers — they left him there ; 

They left to the fountain a dark-red vein. 

And on the wet violets a pile of slain, 

And a hush of fear through the summer-grove, — 

So closed the triumph of youth and love ! 

III. 

Gloomy lay the shore that night. 
When the moon, with sleeping light, 
Bathed each purple Sciote hili, — 
Gloomy lay the shore, and still. 
O'er the wave no gay guitar 
Sent its floating music far ; 
No glad sound of dancing feet 
Woke, the starry hours to greet. 
But a voice of mortal wo, 
In its changes wild or low. 
Through the midnight's blue repose, 
From the sea-beat rocks arose, 
As Eudora's mother stood 
Gazing on th' Egean flood. 
With a fixed and straining eye — 
Oh ! was the spoilers' vessel nigh 
Yes ! there, becalmed in silent sleep, 
Dark and alone on a breathless deep, 
On a sea of molten silver dark. 
Brooding it frowned that evil bark ! 
There its broad pennon a shadow cast. 
Moveless and black from the tall still mast, 
And the heavy sound of its flapping sail. 
Idly and vainly wooed the gale. 
Hushed was all else — had ocean's breast 
Rocked e'en Eudora that hour to rest ? 

To rest 1 — the waves tremble ! what piercing cry 
Bursts from the heart of the ship on high? 
23 



What light through the heavens, in a sudden 

spire, 
Shoots from the deck up? Fire I 'tis fire ! 
There are wild forms hurrying to and fro, 
Seen darkly clear on tliat lurid glow ; 
There are shout, and signal-gun, and call. 
And the dashing of water, — but fruitless all! 
Man may not fetter, nor ocean tame 
The might and wrath of the rushing flame ! 
It hath twined the mast like a glittering snake, 
That coils up a tree from a dusky brake; 
It hath touched the sails, and their canvass rolls 
Away from its breath into shrivelled scrolls ; 
It hath taken the flag's high place in air. 
And reddened the stars with its wavy glare. 
And sent out bright arrows, and soared in glee, 
To a burning mount midst the moonlight sea. 
Theswimmers are plunging from stern and prow — 
Eudora, Eudora ! where, where art thou? 
The slave and his master ahke are gone. — 
Mother! who stands on the deck alone? 
The child of thy bosom I — and lo ! a brand 
Blazing up high in her lifted hand ! 
And her veil flung back, and her free dark hair 
Swayed by the flames as they rock and flare, 
And her fragile form to its loftiest height 
Dilated, as if by the sjiirit's might, 
And her eye with an eagle-gladness fraught, — 
Oh ! could this work be of woman wrought ? 
Yes ! 't was her deed ! — by that haughty smile 
It was her's ! — She hath kindled her funeral pile ! 
Never might shame on that bright head be. 
Her blood was the Greek's, and hath made her 

free. 

Proudly she stands, Hke an Indian bride 

On the pyre with the holy dead beside ; 

But a shriek from her mother hath caught her ear, 

As the flames to her marriage-robe draw near. 

And starting, she spreads her pale arms in vain 

To the form they must never infold again. 

One moment more, and her hands are clasped, 
Fallen is the torch they had wildly grasped. 
Her sinking knee unto Heaven is bowed, 
And her last look raised through the smoke's dim 

shroud, 

And her lips as in prayer for her pardon move — 
Now the night gathers o'er youth and love !* 



' Originally published, as well as several other of these Re- 
cords, in the Neio Monthly Magazine. 



206 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



THE SWITZER'S WIFE. 

Werner Stauffacher, one of the three confeder- 
ates of the field of GrutH, had been alarmed by the 
envy with which the Austrian Bailiff, Landen- 
berg, had noticed the appearance of wealth and 
comfort which distinguished his dwelling. It was 
not, however, until roused by the entreaties of his 
wife, a woman who seems to have been of an he- 
roic spirit, that he was induced to deliberate with 
his friends upon the measures by which Switzer- 
land was finally delivered. 



Nor look nor tone revealeth aught ; 
Save women's quietness of thought ; 
And yet around her is a hght 
Of inward majesty and might. — M. J. J. 

Wer solch ein herz an seinen Busen drackt, 
Der kann fur herd und hof mit freuden fechten. 

WUlholm Tell. 



It was the time when children bound to meet 
Their father's homeward step from field or hill, 

And when the herd's returning bells are sweet 
In the Swiss valleys, and the lakes grow still, 

And the last note of that wild horn swells by, 

Which haunts the exile's heart with melody. 

And lovely smiled full many an Alpine home. 
Touched with the crimson of the dying hour. 

Which ht its low roof by the torrent's foam. 
And pierced its lattice thro' the vine-hung bow- 
er; 

But one, the lovehest o'er the land that rose. 

Then first looked mournful in its green repose. 

For Werner sat beneath the linden-tree. 

That sent hs lulling whispers through his door. 

Even as man sits whose heart , lone would be 
With some deep care, and thus can find no more 

Th' accustomed joy in all which evening brings, 

Gathering a household with her quiet wings. 

His wife stood hushed before him,— sad, yet mild 
In her beseeching mien ; — he marked it not. 

The silvery laughter of his bright-haired child 
Rang from the greensward round the sheltered 
spot, 

But seemed unheard ; until at last the boy 

Raised from his heaped up flowers a glance of joy. 

And met his father's face : but then a change 
Passed swiftly o'er the brow of infant glee. 

And a quick sense of something dimly strange 
Brought him from play to stand beside the knee 

So often climbed, and Uft his loving eyes 

That shone through clouds of sorrowful surprise. 



Then the proud bosom of the strong man shook , 

But tenderly his babe's fair mother laid 
Her hand on his, and with a pleading look, 
Thro' tears half quivering, o'er him bent, and 
said, 
" What grief, dear friend, hath made thy heart its 

prey, 
That thou shouldst turn thee from our love awayl 

"It is too sad to see thee thus, my friend ! 

Markest thou the wonder on thy boy's fair brow, 
Missing the smile from thine'? Oh! cheer thee! 
bend 

To his soft arms, unseal thy thoughts e'en now ! 
Thou dost not kindly to withhold the share 
Of tried afiection in thy secret care." 

He looked up into that sweet earnest face, 
But sternly, mournfully: not yet the band 

Was loosened from his soul ; its inmost place 
Not yet unveiled by love's o'ermastering hand. 

" Speak low!'' he cried, and pointed where on high 

The white Alps ghttered through the solemn sky : 

" We must speak low amidst our ancient hills 
And their free torrents ; for the days are come 

When tyranny lies couched by forest-rills. 

And meets the shepherd in his mountain-home. 

Go, pour the wine of our own grapes in fear, 

Keep silence by the hearth ! its foes are near. 

" The envy of the oppressor's eye hath been 

Upon my heritage. I sit to-night 
Under my household tree, if not serene, 

Yet with the faces best-beloved in sight : 
To-morrow eve may find me chained, and thee — 
How can I bear the boy's young smiles to seel" 

The bright blood left that youthfiil mother's cheek; 

Back on the linden-stem she leaned her form, 
And her lip trembled, as it strove to speak. 

Like a frail harp string, shaken by the storm. 
'Twas but a moment, and the faintness passed, 
And the free Alpine spirit woke at last. 

And she, that ever through her home had moved 
With the meek thoughtfulness and quiet smile 

Of woman, calmly loving and beloved. 
And timid in her happiness the while. 

Stood brightly forth, and stedfastly, that hour. 

Her clear glance kindling into sudden power. 

Ay, pale she stood, but with an eye of light. 
And took her fair child to her holy breast. 

And lifted her soft voice, that gathered might 
As it found language: — " Are we thus oppress- 
ed 7 

Then must we rise upon our mountain-sod, 

And man must arm, and woman call on God! 

" I know what thou wouldst do, — and be it done! 
Thy soul is darkened with its fears for me. 



HECORDS OF WOMAN. 



207 



Trust me to Heaven, my husband ! — this, thy son, 
The babe whom I have born tliee, must be free ! 
And the sweet memory of our pleasant hearth 
May well give strength — if aught be strong on 
earth. 

" Thou hast been brooding o'er the silent dread 
Of my desponding tears; now lift once more, 

My hunter of the hills! thy stately head. 
And let thine eagle glance my joy restore ! 

I can bear all, but seeing thee subdued, — 

Take to thee back thine own undaunted mood. 

" Go forth beside the waters, and along 

The chamois-paths, and through the forests go ; 

And tell, in burning words, thy tale of wrong 
To the brave hearts that midst the hamlets glow. 

God shall be with thee, my beloved ! — Away ! 

Bless but thy child, and leave me, — I can pray !" 

He sprang up like a warrior-youth awaking 
To clarion -sounds upon the ringing air ; 

He caught her to his breast, while proud tears 
breaking 
From his dark eyes, fell o'er her braided hair, — 

And " Worthy art thou," was his joyous cry, 

" That man for thee should gird himself to die. 

" My bride, my wife, the motlier of my child ! 

Now shall thy name be armour to my heart ; 
And this our land, by chains no more defiled, 

Be taught of thee to choose the better part ! 
I go — thy spirit on my words shall dwell. 
Thy gentle voice shall stir the Alps — Farewell ! 

And thus they parted, by the quiet lake, 

In the clear starlight : he, the strength to rouse 

Of the free hills ; she, thoughtful for his sake. 
To rock her child beneath the whispering 
boughs 

Singing its blue, half-curtained eyes to sleep, 

With a low hymn, amidst the stillness deep. 



PROPERZIA ROSSI. 

Properzia Rossi, a celebrated female sculptor of 
Bologna, possessed also of talents for poetry and 
music, died in consequence of an unrequited at- 
tachment. — A painting by Ducis, represents her 
showing her last work, a basso-relievo of Ariadne, 
to a Roman Knight, the object of her aflfection, 
who regards it with indifference. 



Tell me no more, no more 

Of my soul's lofty gifts ! Are they not vain 
To quench its haunting thirst for happiness? 
Have I not loved, and striven, and failed to bind 
One true heart unto me, whereon my own 
Might find a resting-place, a home for all 
Its burden of affections? I depart. 



Uiik-Movvn, though Famu goes with me ; I must leave 
The earih unknown. Yet it may be that death 
Sliall give my name a powerto win such tears 
As would have made life precious. 



Onf. dream of passion and of beauty more! 
And in its bright fulfilment let me pour 
My soul away ! Let earth retain a trace 
Of that which lit my being, though its race 
Might have been loftier far. — Yet one more dream ! 
From my deep spirit one victorious gleam 
Ere I depart ! For thee alone, for thee! 
May this last work, this farewell triumph be, 
Thou, loved so vainly ! I would leave enshrined 
Something immortal of my heart and mind. 
That yet may speak to thee when I am gone, 
Shaking thine inmost bosom with a tone 
Of lost aflection ; — something that may prove 
What she hath been, whose melancholy love 
On thee was lavished; silent pang and tear, 
And fervent song, that gushed when none were 

near. 
And dream by night, and weary thought by day, 
Stealing the brightness from her life away, — 

While thou Awake! not yet within me die, 

Under the burden and the agony 

Of this vain tenderness, — my spirit, wake 

Ev'n for tliy sorrowful aflection's sake, 

Live ! in thy work breathe out ! — that he may yet, 

Feeling sad mastery there, perchance regret 

Thine unrequited gift. 

IL 

It comes, — the power 
Within me boi'n, flows back; my fruitless dower 
That could not win me love. Yet once again 
I greet it proudly, with its rushing train 
Of glorious images: — they throng — they press — 
A sudden joy lights up my loneliness, — 
I shall not perish all! 

The bright work grows 
Beneath my hand, unfolding, as a rose. 
Leaf after leaf, to beauty ; line by line, 
I fix my thought, heart, soul, to burn, to shine, 
Through the pale marble's veins. It grows — and 

now 
I give my own life's history to thy brow, 
Forsaken Ariadne! thou shalt wear 
My form, my lineaments; but oh! more fair, 
Touched into lovelier being by the glow 

Which in me dwells, as by the summer-light 
All things are glorified. From thee my wo 

Shall yet look beautiful to meet his sight, 
When I am passed away. Thou art the mould, 
Wherein I pour the fervent thoughts, th' untold, 
The self-consuming! Speak to him of me, 
Thou, the deserted by the lonely sea, 



208 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



With the soft sadness of thine earnest eye, 

Speak to him, lorn one ! deeply, mournfully, 

Of all my love and grief! Oh! could I throw 

Into thy frame a voice, a sweet and low, 

And thrilling voice of song ! when he came nigh, 

To send the passion of its melody 

Through his pierced bosom — on its tones to bear, 

My life's deep feeling, as the southern air 

Wafts the faint myrtle's breath, — to rise, to swell. 

To sink away in accents of farewell. 

Winning but one, one gush of tears, whose flow 

Surely my parted spirit yet might know 

If love be strong as death ! 

III. 

Now fair thou art, 
Thou form, whose life is of my burning heart ! 
Yet all the vision that within me wrought, 

It can not make thee ! Oh ! I might have given 
Birth to creations of far nobler thought, 

I might have kindled with the fire of heaven. 
Things not of such as die ! But I have been 
Too much alone; a heart whereon to lean. 
With all these deep aftections, that o'erflow 
My aching soul, and find no shore below ; 
An eye to be my star, a voice to bring 
Hope o'er my path, like sounds that breathe of 

spring, 
These are denied me — dreamt of still in vain, — 
Therefore my brief aspirings from the chain, 
Are ever but as some wild fitful song, 
Rising triumphantly, to die ere long 
In dirge-like echoes. 

IV. 

Yet the world will see 
Little of this, my parting work, in thee, 

Thou shalt have fame ! Oh, mockery ! give the 
reed 
From storms a shelter, give the droopiug vine 
Something round which its tendrils may entwine, — 

Give the parched flower a rain-drop, and the 
meed 
Of love's kind words to woman ! Worthless fame ! 
That in his bosom wins not for my name 
Th' abiding-place it asked ! Yet how my heart, 
In its own fairy world of song and art, 
Once beat for praise !— Are those high longings 

o'er? 
That which I have been can I be no morel 
Never, oh! nevermore; though still thy sky 
Be blue as then, my glorious Italy ! 
And though the music, whose rich breathings fill 
Thine air with soul, be wandering past me still, 
And though the mantle of thy sunlight streams, 
Unchanged on forms, instinct with poet-dreams ; 



Never, oh ! never more ! Where'er I move, 

The shadow of this broken-hearted love 

Is on me and around ! Too well they know, 

Whose life is all within, too soon and well, 
When there the blight hath settled ; — but I go 

Under the silent wings of peace to dwell ; 
From the slow wasting, from the lonely pain, 
The inward burning of those words — "in vain" 

Seared on the heart — I go. 'T will soon be past. 
Sunshine, and song, and bright Italian heaven. 

And thou, oh ! thou, on whom my spirit cast 
Unvalued v/ealth, — who knowest not what was 

given 
In that devotedness, — the sad, and deep. 
And unrepaid — farewell ! If I could weep 
Once, only once, beloved one ! on thy breast. 
Pouring my heart forth ere I sink to rest ! 
But that were happiness, and unto me 
Earth's gift is fame. Yet I was formed to be 
So richly blest ! With thee to watch the sky 
Speaking not, feeling but that thou wert nigh j 
With thee to listen, while the tones of song 
Swept ev'n as part of our sweet air along, 
To listen silently ; — with thee to gaze 
On forms, the deified of olden days. 
This had been joy enough ; — and hour by hour, 
From its glad well-springs drinking life and power, 
How had my spirit soared, and made its fame 

A glory for thy brow ! — Dreams, dreams ! — the 
fire 
Burns faint within me. Yet I leave my name — 

As a deep thrill may Hnger on the lyre 
When its full chords are hushed — awhile to live, 
And one day haply in thy heart revive 
Sad thoughts of me : — I leave it, with a sound, 
A spell o'er memory, mournfully profound, 
I leave it, on my country's air to dwell, — 
Say proudly yet — '"T was her's who loved mc 
well!" 



GERTRUDE, 

OR FTOELITY TILL DEATH. 

The Baron Von Der Wart, accused, though it 
is believed unjustly, as an accomplice in the assas- 
sination of the Emperor Albert, was bound aUve 
on the wheel, and attended by his wife Gertrude, 
throughout his last agonizing hours, with the most 
heroic devotedness. Her own suflerings, with 
those of her unfortunate husband, are most affect- 
ingly described in a letter which she afterwards ad- 
dressed to a female friend, and which was publish- 
ed some years ago, at Haarlem, in a book entitled 
Gertrude Von Der Wart or Fidelity unto Death. 



RECORDS OF WOMAN. 



209 



Dark lowers our fate, 
And terrible the storm that gathers o'er us ; 
But nothing, till that latest agony 
Which severs thee from nature, shall unloose 
This fixed and sacred hold. In thy dark prison-house, 
In the terrific face of armed law. 
Yea, on the scaffold, if it needs must be, 
I never will Ibrsake thee. 

Joanna Baillie. 



Her hands were clasped, her dark eyes raised, 

The breeze threw back her hair ; 
Up to the fearful wheel she gazed — 

All that she loved was there. 
The night was round her clear and cold, 

The holy heaven above, 
Its pale stars watching to behold 

The might of earthly love. 

" And bid me not depart," she cried, 

" My Rudolph, say not so ! 
This is no time to quit thy side, 

Peace, peace ! I can not go. 
Hath the world aught for me to fear, 

When death is on thy brow? 
The world ! what means it 1 — mine is here — 

I will not leave thee now. 

" I have been with thee in thine hour 

Of glory and of bliss; 
Doubt not its memory's living power 

To strengthen me through this! 
And thou, mine honoured love and true 

Bear on, bear nobly on ! 
We have the blessed heaven in view, 

Whose rest shall soon be won." 

And were not these high words to flow 

From woman's breaking heart 1 
Through all that night of bitterest wo 

She bore her lofty part ; 
But oh ! with such a glazing eye, 

With such a curdling cheek — 
Love, love ! of mortal agony. 

Thou, only thou shouldst speak! 

The wind rose high, — but with it rose 

Her voice, that he might hear: 
Perchance that dark hour brought repose 

To happy bosoms near; 
While she sat striving with despair 

Beside his tortured form, 
And pouring her deep soul in prayer 

Forth on the rushing storm. 

She wiped the death-damps from his brow, 

With her pale hands and soft. 
Whose touch upon the lute-chords low, 

Had stilled his heart so oft. 



She spread her mantle o'er his breast, 
She bathed his lips with dew. 

And on his cheeks such kisses pressed 
As hope and joy ne'er knew. 

Oh ! lovely are ye, Love and Faith, 

Enduring to the last! 
She had her meed — one smile in death — 

And his worn spirit passed. 
While even as o'er a martyr's grave 

She knelt on that sad spot, 
And, weeping, blessed the God who gave 

Strength to forsalce it not ! 



IMELDA. 



-Sometimes 



The young forgot the lessons they had learnt. 
And loved when they should hate, — like thee, Imelda !(4) 
Italy, a Poem. 
Passa la bella Donna, e par che dorma. — Tasso. 



We have the myrtle's breath around us here. 

Amidst the fallen pillars; — this hath been 
Some Naiad's fane of old. How brightly clear, 

Flinging a vein of silver o'er the scene, 
Up through the shadowy grass, the fountain wells, 

And music with it, gushing from beneath 
The ivied altar! — that sweet murmur tells 

The rich wild flowers no tale of wo or death ; 
Yet once the wave was darkened, and a stain 
Lay deep, and heavy drops — but not of rain — 
On the dim violets by its marble bed. 
And the pale shining water-lily's head. 

Sad is that legend's truth. — A fair girl met 
One whom she loved, by this lone temple's 
spring, 
Just as the sun behind the pine-grove set, 

And eve's low voice in whispers woke, to bring 
All wanderers home. They stood, that gentle pair, 

With the blue heaven of Italy above. 
And citron-odours dying on the air. 

And hght leaves trembling round, and early love 
Deep in each breast. — What recked their souls of 

strife 
Between their fathers 1 Unto them young life 
Spread out the treasures of its vernal years; 
And if they wept, they wept far other tears 
Than the cold world wrings forth. They stood, 

that hour. 
Speaking of hope, while tree, and fount, and flow- 
er. 
And star, just gleaming through the cypress 

boughs. 
Seemed holy things, as records of their vows. 



210 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



But change came o'er the scene. A hurrying 
tread 

Broke on the whispery shades. Imelda knew 
The footstep of her brother's wrath, and fled 

Up where the cedars make yon avenue 
Dim with green twiUght: pausing there, she 

caught — 
Was it the clash of swords? — a swift dark thought 

Struck down her Up's rich crimson as it passed. 
And from her eye the sunny sparkle took 
One moment with its fearfulness, and shook 

Her slight frame fiercely, as a stormy blast 
Might rock the rose. Once more, and yet once 

more, 
She stilled her heart to listen, — all was o'er ; 
Sweet summer winds alone were heard to sigh, 
Bearing the nightingale's deep spirit by. 

That night Imelda's voice was in the song. 
Lovely it floated through the festive throng. 
Peopling her father's halls. That fatal night 
Her eye looked staiTy in its dazzling light. 
And her cheek glowed with beauty's flushing 

dyes. 
Like a rich cloud of eve in southern skies, 
A burning, ruby cloud. There were, whose gaze 
Followed her fonn beneath the clear lamp's blaze. 
And marvelled at its radiance. But a few 
Beheld the brightness of that feverish hue. 
With something of dim fear ; and in that glance 

Found strange and sudden tokens of unrest, 
Startling to meet amidst the mazy dance, 

Where thought, if present, an unbidden guest. 
Comes not umnasked. Howc'er this were, the 

time 
Sped as it speeds with joy, and grief, and crime 
Alike : and when the banquet's hall was left 
Unto its garlands of their bloom bereft. 
When trembling stars looked silvery in their wane, 
And heavy flowers, yet slumbered, once again 
There stole a footstep, fleet, and light, and lone, 
Through the dim cedar shade ; the step of one 
That started at a leaf, of one that fled. 
Of one that panted with some secret dread : — 
What did Imelda there 1 She sought the scene 
Where love so late with youth and hope had 

been; 
Bodings were on her soul — a shuddering thrill 
Ran through each vein, when first the Naiad's 

rill 
Met her with melody — sweet sounds and low; 
We hear them yet, they live along its flow — 
Her voice is music lost ! The fountain-side 
She gained — the wave flashed forth — 't was darkly 

dyed 
E'en as from warrior-hearts ; and on its edge. 

Amidst .the fern, and flowers, and moss-tufts 
deep. 



There lay, as lulled by stream and rustling sedge, 

A youth, a graceful youth. " Oh ! dost thou 
sleep 1 
Azzo 1" she cried, " my Azzo ! is this resf?" 
But then her low tones faltered : — " On thy breast 
Is the stain, — yes, 't is blood ! — and that cold 

cheek — 
That moveless hp ! — thou dost not slumber 1 — 

speak. 
Speak, Azzo, my beloved ! — no sound — no breath! 
What hath come thus between our spirits'! — Death ! 
Death? — I but dream — 1 dream!" — and there she 

stood, 
A faint, frail trembler, gazing first on blood, 
With her fair arm around yon cypress thrown, 
Her fonn sustained by that dark stem alone. 
And fading fast, like spell-struck maid of old, 
Into white waves dissolving, clear and cold ; 
When from the grass her dimmed eye caught a 

gleam — 
'Twas where a sword lay shivered by the stream, — 
Her brother's sword! — she knew it; and she knew 
'Twas with a venomed point that weapon slew! 
Wo for young love ! But love is strong. There 

came 
Strength upon woman's fragile heart and frame. 
There came swift courage ! On the dewy ground 
She knelt, with all her dark hair floating round, 
Like a long silken stole ; she knelt, and pressed 
Fler lips of glowing life to Azzo's breast. 
Drawing the poison forth. A strange, sad sight ! 
Pale death, and fearless love, and solemn night ! — 
So the moon saw them last. 

The morn came singing 

Through the green forest of the Appenines, 
With all her joyous birds theh free flight swinging, 

And steps and voices out among the vines. 
What found that day-spring here ? Two fair forms 

laid 
Like sculptured sleepers ; from the myrtle shade 
Casting a gleam of beauty o'er the wave. 
Still, mournful, sweet. Were such things for the 

grave 1 
Could it be so indeed 1 That radiant girl. 
Decked as for bridal hours I — long braids of pearl 
Amidst her shadowy locks were faintly shining, 

As tears might shine, with melancholy light; 
And there was gold her slender waist entwining ; 

And her pale graceful arms — how sadly bright! 
And fiery gems upon her breast were lying. 
And round her marble brow red roses dying. — 
But she died first! — the violet's hue had spread 

O'er her sweet eye-lids with repose oppressed, 
She had bowed heavily her gentle head. 

And, on the youth's hushed bosom, sunk to rest. 
So slept they well ! — the poison's work was done ; 
Love with true heart had striven — but Death had 



RECORDS OF WOMAN. 



211 



EDITH, 

A TALE OP THE WOODS.* 



Du Heilige! rufe dein Kind zuriick! 
Ich habe genossen das irdisclie Gliick, 
Ich habe gelebt und geliebet. 

Wallenntein. 



The woods — oh ! solemn are the boundless woods 

Of the great Western World, when day declines, 
And louder sounds the roll of distant floods, 

More deep the rustling of the ancient pines ; 
When dimness gathers on the stilly air, 

And mystery seems o'er every leaf to brood, 
Awful it is for human heart to bear 

The migiit aad burden of tlie solitude I 
Yet, in that hour, midst those green wastes, there 

sate 
One young and fair ; and oh ! how desolate ! 
But undismayed ; while sank the crimson light, 
And the high cedars darkened with the night. 
Alone she sate : though many lay around, 
Thej', pale and silent on t!ie bloody ground. 
Were severed from her need and from her wo, 

Far as Death severs Life. O'er that wild spot 
Combat had raged, and brought the valiant low, 

And left them, with the history of their lot. 
Unto the forest oaks. A fearful scene 
For her whose home of other days had been 
Midst the fair halls of England ! but the love 

Which filled her soul was strong to cast out fear, 
And by its might upborne all else above. 

She shrank not — marked not that the dead were 
near. 
Of him alone she thought, whose languid head 

Faintly upon her wedded bosom fell ; 
Memory of aught but him on earth was fled. 

While heavily she felt his life-blood well 
Fast o'er her garments forth, and vainly bound 
With her torn robe and hair the streaming wound, 
Yet hoped, still hoped ! — Oh ! from such hope how 
long 

Affection wooes the whispers that deceive. 
E'en when the pressure of dismay grows strong. 

And we, that weep, watch, tremble, ne'er believe 
The blow indeed can fall ! So bowed she there. 
Over the dying, while unconscious prayer 
Filled all her soul. Now poured the moonlight 

down, 
Veining the pine-stems through the foliage brown, 
And fire-flies-, kindling up the leafy-place, 
Cast fitfiil radiance o'er the warrior's face, 



* Founded on incidenta related in an American work, 
" Sketches of Conneciiciit." 



Whereby she caught its changes : to her eye, 
The eye that faded looked through gathering 
haze, 
Whence love, o'ermastering mortal agony. 

Lifted a long deep melancholy gaze. 
When voice was not: that fond sad meaning pass- 
ed — 
She knew the fulness of her wo at last ! 
One shriek the forests heard, — and mute she lay, 
And cold; yet clasping still the precious clay 
To her scarce-heaving breast. O Love and Death! 
Ye have sad meetings on this changeful earth, 
Many and sad ! but airs of heavenly breath 
Shall melt the links which bind you, for your birth 
Is far apart. 

Now light, of richer hue 
Than the moon sheds, came flushing mist and dew ; 
The pines grew red with morning ; fresh winds 

played, 
Bright-coloured birds with splendour fcrossed the 

shade. 
Flitting on flower-like wings ; glad murmurs broke 
From reed, and spray, and leaf, the hving strings 
Of earth's Eolian lyre, whose music woke 
Into young life and joy all happy things. 
And she too woke from that long dreamless trance, 
The widowed Edith : fearfully her glance 
Fell, as in doubt, on faces dark and strancre. 
And dusky forms. A sudden sense of change 
Flashed o'er her spirit, ev'n as memory swept 
The tide of anguish back with thoughts that 

slept ; 
Yet half instinctively she rose, and spread 
Her arms, as 't were for something lost or fled, 
Then faintly sank again. The forest-bough, 
With all its whispers, waved not o'er her now,^ 
Where was she? Midst the people of the wild, 

By the red hunter's fire : an aged chief, 
Whose home looked sad — for therein played no 
child- 
Had borne her, in the stillness of her grief, 
To that lone cabin of the woods ; and there. 
Won by a form so desolately fair, 
Or touched with thoughts from some past sorrow 

sprung. 
O'er her low couch an Indian matron hung. 
While in grave silence, yet with earnest eye. 
The ancient warrior of the waste stood by, 
Bending in watchfulness his proud gray head, 
And leaning on his bow. 

And Hfe returned. 
Life, but with all its memories of the dead. 

To Edith's heart; and well the sufferer learned 
Her task of meek endurance, well she wore 
The chastened grief that humbly can adore. 
Midst bUnding tears. But unto that old pair, 
Ev'n as a breath of spring's awakening air, 
Her presence was; or a sweet wild tune 
Bringing back tender thoughts, which all too soon 



212 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



Depart with childhood. Sadly they had seen 

A daughter to the land of spirits go, 
And ever from that time her fading mien, 

And voice, like winds of summer, soft and low, 
Had haunted their dim years; but Edith's face 
Now looked in holy sweetness from her place. 
And they again seemed parents. Oh ! the joy ! 
The rich, deep blessedness — though earth's alloy. 
Fear, that still bodes, be there — of pouring forth 
The heart's whole power of love, its wealth and 

worth 
Of strong affection, in one healthful flow 
On something all its own ! — that kindly glow, 
Which to shut inward is consuming pain, 
Gives the glad soul its flowering time again, 
When, like the sunshine, freed. — And gentle 

cares 
Th' adopted Edith meekly gave for theirs 
Who loved her thus : — her spirit dwelt, the while, 
With the departed, and her patient smile 
Spoke of farewells to earth ; — yet still she prayed, 
Ev'n o'er her soldier's lowly grave, for aid 
One purpose to fulfil, to leave one trace 
Brightly recording that her dwelling-place 
Had been among the wilds ; for well she knew 
The secret whisper of her bosom true, 
Which warned her hence. 

And now, by many a word 
Linked unto moments when the heart was stirred, 
By the sweet mournfulness of many a hymn. 
Sung when the woods at eve grew hushed and 

dim. 
By the persuasion of her fervent eye, 
All eloquent with child-like piety. 
By the still beauty of her life, she strove 
To win for heaven, and heaven-born truth, the 

love 
Poured out on her so freely. — Nor in vain 
Was that soft-breathing influence to enchain 
The soul in gentle bonds: by slow degrees 
Light followed on, as when a summer breeze 
Parts the deep masses of the forest shade 
And lets the sunbeam through: — her voice was 

made 
Ev^n such a breeze ; and she, a lowly guide, 
By faith and sorrow raised and purified, 
So to the Cross her Indian fosterers led. 
Until their prayers were one. When morning 



O'er the blue lake, and when the sunset's glow 
Touched into golden bronze the cypress-bough. 
And when the quiet of the Sabbath time 
Sank on her heart, though no melodious chime 
Wakened the wilderness, their prayers were one. 

-Now might she pass in hope, her work was done. 

And she was passing from the woods awayj 
The broken flower of England might not stay 
Amidst those alien shades ; her eye was bright 
Ev'n yet with something of a starry light, 



But her form wasted, and her fair young cheek 
Wore oft and patiently a fatal streak, 
A rose whose root was death. The parting sigh 
Of autumn through the forests liad gone by, 
And the rich maple o'er her wanderings lone 
Its crimson leaves in many a shower had strown, 
Flushing the air ; and winter's blast had been 
Amidst the pines ; and now a sofl;er green 
Fringed their dark boughs ; for spring again had 

come, 
The sunny spring ! but Edith to her home 
Was journeying fast. Alas ! we think it sad 
To part with life, when all the earth looks glad 
In her young lovely things, when voices break 
Into sweet sounds, and leaves and blossoms wake ; 
Is it not brighter then, in that far clime 
Where graves are not, nor blights of changeful 

time. 
If here such glory dwell with passing blooms, 
Such golden sunshine rest around the tombs "? 
So thought the dying one. 'T was early day, 
And sounds and odours with the breezes' play, 
Whispering of spring-time, through the cabin- 
door. 
Unto her couch life's farewell sweetness bore;' 
Then with a look where all her hope awoke, 
" My father !" — to the gray-haired chief she spoke — 
"Know'st thou that I depart!" — "I know, I 

know," 
He answered mournfully, " that thou must go 
To thy beloved, my daughter !" — " Sorrow not 
For me, kind mother!" with meek smiles once 

more 
She murmured in low tones; " one happy lot 
Awaits, us, friends! upon the better shore; 
For we have prayed together in one trust, 
And lifted our frail spirits from the dust, 
To God, who gave them. Lay me by mine own, 
Under the cedar-shade : where he is gone 
Thither I go. There will my sisters be. 
And the dead parents, Usping at whose knee 
My childhood's prayer was learned, — the Saviour's 

prayer 
Which now ye know, — and I shall meet you 

there, 
Father, and gentle mother ! — ye have bound 
The bruised reed, and mercy shall be found 
By Mercy's children." — From the matron's eye, 
Dropped tears, her sole and passionate reply ; 
But Edith felt them not; for now a sleep. 
Solemnly beautiful, a stillness deep. 
Fell on her settled face. Then, sad and slow, 
And mantling up his stately head in wo, 
" Thou 'rt passing hence," he sang, that warrior 

old, 
In sounds like those by plaintive waters rolled. 

" Thou 'rt passing from the lake's green side, 
And the hunter's hearth away ; 



RECORDS OP WOMAN. 



213 



For the time of flowers, for the summer's pride, 
Daughter ! thou canst not stay. 

Thou 'rt journeying to thy spirit's home, 

Where the skies are ever clear; 
The corn-month's golden hours will come, 

But they shall not find thee here. 

And we shall miss thy voice, my bird ! 

Under our whispering pine ; 
Music shall midst the leaves be heard, 

But not a song like thine. 

A breeze that roves o'er stream and hill, 

Telling of winter gone, 
Hath such sweet falls — yet caught we still 

A farewell in its tone. 

But thou, my bright one ! thou shall be 

Where farewell sounds are o'er ; 
Thou, in the eyes thou lov'st, shalt see 

No fear of parting more. 

The mossy grave thy tears have wet, 

And the wind's wild moanings by. 
Thou with thy kindred shalt forget. 

Midst flowers — not such as die. 

The shadow from thy brow shall melt. 

The sorrow from thy strain, 
But where thine earthly smile hath dwelt, 

Our hearts shall thirst in vain. 

Dim will our cabin be, and lone. 

When thou, its light, art fled; 
Yet hath thy step the pathway shown 

Unto the happy dead. 

And we will follow thee, our guide! 

And join that shining band ; 
Thou 'rt passing from the lake's green side — 

Go to the better land !" 

The song had ceased — the listeners caught no 

breath. 
That lovely sleep had melted into death. 



THE INDIAN CITY.* 



What deep wounds ever closed without a scar ) 
The heart's bleed longest, and but heal to wear 
That which disfigures it. 

Childe Harold. 



Royal in splendour went down the day 
On the plain where an Indian city lay, 



' From a tale in Forbes' Orienta! Memoirs. 



With its crown of domes o'er the forest high. 

Red as if fused in the burning sky. 

And its deep groves pierced by the rays which made 

A bright stream's way through each long arcade, 

Till the pillared vaults of the Banian stood, 

Like torch-lit aisles midst the solemn wood. 

And the plantain glittered with leaves of gold, 

As a tree midst the genii-gardens old. 

And the cypress hfted a blazing spire. 

And the stems of the cocoas were shafts of fire. 

Many a white pagoda's gleam 

Slept lovely round upon lake and stream, 

Broken alone by the lotus-flowers, 

As they caught the glow of the sun's last hours, 

Like rosy wine in their cups, and shed 

Its glory forth on their crystal bed. 

Many a graceful Hindoo maid. 

With the water-vase from the palmy shade. 

Came gliding light as the desert's roe, 

Down marble steps to the tanks below ; 

And a cool sweet plashing was ever heard. 

As the molten glass of the wave was stirred ; 

And a murmur, thrilling the scented air. 

Told where the Bramin bowed in prayer. 

There wandered a noble Moslem boy 
Through the scene of beauty in breathless joy ; 
He gazed where the stately city rose 
Like a pageant of clouds in its red repose ; 
He turned where birds through the gorgeous gloom 
Of the woods went glancing on starry plume ; 
He tracked the brink of the shining lake. 
By the tall canes feathered in tuft and brake. 
Till the path he chose, in its mazes wound 
To the very heart of the holy ground. 

And there lay the water, as if enshrined 
In a rocky urn from the sun and wind. 
Bearing the hues of the grove on high, 
Far down through its dark still purity. 
The flood beyond, to the fiery west 
Spread out like a metal-mirror's breast. 
But that lone bay, in its dimness deep. 
Seemed made for the swimmer's joyous leap, 
For the stag athirst from the noontide chase. 
For all free things of the wild-wood's race. 

Like a falcon's glance on the wide blue sky, 
Was the kindling flasli of the boy's glad eye. 
Like a sea-bird's flight to the foaming wave, « 

From the shadowy bank was the bound he gave ; 
Dashing the spray-drops, cold and white. 
O'er the glossy leaves in his young delight, 
And bowing his locks to the waters clear — 
Alas ! he dreamt not that fate was near. 

His mother looked from her tent the while, 
O'er heaven and earth with a quiet smile : 



214 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



She, on her way unto Mecca's fane, 

Had stayed the march of her pilgrim-train, 

Calmly to linger a few brief hours, 

In the Bramin city's glorious bowers ; 

For the pomp of the forest, the wave's bright fall. 

The red gold of sunset — she loved them all. 

11. 

The moon rose clear in the splendour given 
To the deep-blue night of an Indian heaven ; 
The boy -from the high-arched woods came back — 
Oh ! what had he met in his lonely track 1 
The serpent's glance, through the long reeds bright ? 
The arrowy spring of the tiger's might 1 
No ! — yet as one by a conflict worn, 
With his graceful hair all soiled and torn. 
And a gloom on the hds of his darkened eye. 
And a gash on his bosom — he came to die ! 
He looked for the face to his young heart sweet, 
And found it, and sank at his mother's feet. 

" Speak to me ! — whence doth the swift blood run 1 
What hath befallen thee, my child, ray son 1" 
The mist of death on liis brow lay pale, 
But his voice just lingered to breathe the tale, 
Murmuring faintly of wrongs and scorn, 
And wounds from the children of Brahma born : 
This was the doom for a Moslem found 
With foot profane on their holy ground, 
This was for sullying the pure waves free 
Unto them alone — 't was their God's decree. 

A change came o'er his wandering look — 

The mother shrieked not then, nor shook : 

Breathjess she knelt in her son's young blood, 

Rending her mantle to staunch its flood ; 

But it rushed lilie a river which none may stay, 

Bearing a flower to the deep away. 

That which our love to the earth would chain, 

Fearfully striving with Heaven in vain, 

That which fades from us, while yet we hold. 

Clasped to our bosoms, its mortal mould, 

Was fleeting before her, afar and fast ; 

One moment — the soul from the face had passed ! 

Are there no words for that common wo 1 
— Ask of the thousands, its depth that know ! 
The boy had breathed, in his dreaming rest. 
Like a low-voiced dove, on her gentle breast ; 
He had stood, when she sorrowed, beside her knee. 
Painfully stilling his quick heart's glee ; 
He had kissed from her cheek the widow's tears, 
With the loving lip of his infant years ; 
He had smiled o'er her path like a bright spring- 
day— 
Now in his blood on the earth he lay ! 
Murdered ! — Alas ! and we love so well 
In a world where anguish like this can dwell ! 



She bowed down mutely o'er her dead — 
They that stood round her watched in dread ; 
They watched — she knew not they were by — 
Her soul sat veiled in its agony. 
On the silent lip she pressed no kiss, 
Too stern was the grasp of her pangs for this ; 
She shed no tear as her face bent low, 
O'er the shining hair of the lifeless brow; 
She looked but into the half-shut eye. 
With a gaze that found there no reply, 
And shrieking, mantled her head from sight, 
And fell, struck down by her sorrow's might ! 

And what deep change, what work of power, 

Was wrought on her secret soul that hour'? 

How rose the lonely one 1 — She rose 

Like a prophetess from dark repose ! 

And proudly flung from her face the veil, 

And shook the hair from her forehead pale, 

And 'midst her wondering handmaids stood, 

With the sudden glance of a dauntless mood. 

Ay, hfting up to the midnight sky 

A brow in its regal passion high. 

With a close and rigid grasp she pressed 

The blood-stained robe to her heaving breast, 

And said — "Not yet — not yet I weep, 

Nor yet my spirit shall sink or sleep. 

Not till yon city, in ruins rent, 

Be piled for its victim's monument. 

— Cover his dust ! bear it on before ! 

It shall visit those temple-gates once more." 

And away in the train of death she turned, 
The strength of her step was the heart that burned ; 
And the Bramin groves in the starlight smiled, 
As the mother passed with her slaughtered child. 

III. 

Hark ! a wild sound of the desert's horn 
Through the woods round the Indian city borne, 
A peal of the cymbal and tambour afar — 
War ! 't is the gathering of Moslem war! 
The Bramin looked from the leaguered towers — 
He saw the wild archer amidst his bowers ; 
And the lake that flash'd through the plantain shade 
As the light of the lances along it played ; 
And the canes that shook as if winds were high, 
When the fiery steed of the waste swept by ; 
And the camp as it lay, Uke a billowy sea. 
Wide round the sheltering Banian tree. 

There stood one tent from the rest apart — 
That was the place of a wounded heart. 
— Oh ! deep is a wounded heart, and strong 
A voice that cries against mighty wrong ; 
And full of death as a hot wind's blight, 
Doth the ire of a crushed affection light. 

Maimuna from realm to realm had passed. 
And her tale had rung like a trumpet's blast. 



RECORDS OF WOMAN. 



215 



There had been words from her pale Hps poured, 
Each one a spell to unsheath the sword. 
The Tartar had sprung from his steed to hear, 
And the dark chief of Araby grasped his spear, 
Till a chain of long lances begirt the wall, 
And a vow was recorded that doomed its fall. 
Back with the dust of her son she came, 
When her voice had kindled that lightning flame; 
She came in the might of a queenly foe, 
Banner, and javelin, and bended bow; 
But a deeper power on her forehead sate — 
Inhere sought the warrior his star of fate ; 
Her eye's wild flash through the tented line 
Was hailed as a spirit and a sign. 
And the faintest tone from her lip was caught. 
As a Sybil's breath of prophetic thought. 

Vain, bitter glory! — the gift of grief, 
That lights up vengeance to find relief, 
Transient and faithless ! — it can not fill 
So the deep void of the heart, nor still 
The yearning left by a broken tie, 
That haunted fever of which we die ! 

Sickening she turned from her sad renown. 
As a king in death might reject his crown ; 
Slowly the strength of the walls gave way — 
She withered faster from day to day. 
All the proud sounds of that bannered plain, 
To stay the flight of her soul were vain : 
Like an eagle caged, it had striven, and worn 
The frail dust ne'er for such conflicts born. 
Till the bars were rent, and the hour was come 
For its fearful rushing through darkness home. 

The bright sun set in his pomp and pride. 

As on that eve when the fair boy died ; 

She gazed from her couch, and a softness fell 

O'er her weary heart with the day's farewell ; 

She spoke, and her voice in its dying tone 

Had an echo of feelings that long seemed flown. 

She murmured a low sweet cradle song. 

Strange midst the din of a warrior throng, 

A song of the time when her boy's young cheek 

Had glowed on her breast in its slumber meek ; 

But something which breathed from that mournful 

strain 
Sent a fitful gust o'er her soul again, 
And starting as if from a dream, she cried — 
" Give him proud burial at my side ! 
There, by yon lake, where the palm-boughs wave, 
When the temples are fallen, make there our 

grave." 

And the temples fell, though the spirit passed, 
That stayed not for victory's voice at last ; 
When the day was won for the martyr-dead, 
For the broken heart, and the bright blood shed. 



Through the gates of the vanquished the Tartar 

steed 
Bore in the avenger with foaming speed ; 
Free swept the flame through the idol-fanes. 
And the streams glowed red, as from warrior- veins, 
And the sword of the Moslem, let loose to slay, 
Like the panther leapt on its flying prey, 
Till a city of ruin begirt the shade. 
Where the boy and his mother at rest were laid. 

Palace and tower on that plain were left, 
Like fallen trees by the lightmng cleft ; 
The wild vine mantled the stately square, 
The Rajah's throne was the serpent's lair. 
And the jungle grass o'er the altar sprung — 
This was the work of one deep heart wrung ! 



THE PEASANT GIRL OF THE RHONE. 



There ia but one place in the world. 

Thither wliere he lies buried ! 
***♦♦* + * 

There, there is all that still remains of him, 
That single spot is the whole earth to me. 

Coleridge's WallerMcin. 
Alas ! our young affections run to waste, 
Or water but the desert. — Childe Harold. 



There went a warrior's funeral through the night, 
A waving of tall plumes, a ruddy light 
Of torches, fitfully and wildly thrown 
From the high woods, along the sweeping Rhone, 
Far down the waters. Heavily and dead. 
Under the moaning trees the horse-hoof's tread 
In muffled sounds upon the greensward fell, 
As chieftains passed ; and solemnly the swell 
Of the deep requiem, o'er the gleaming river 
Borne with the gale, and with the leaves' low 

shiver, 
Floated and died. Proud mourners there, yet pale, 

Wore man's mute anguish sternly ; — but of or\e 
Oh I who shall speak? What words his brow un- 
veill 

A father following to the grave his son ! 
That is no grief to picture! Sad and slow. 

Through the wood-shadows moved the knightly 
train, 
With youth's fair form upon the bier laid low. 

Fair even when found, amidst the bloody slain, 
Stretched by its broken lance. They reached tho 
lone 

Baronial chapel, where the forest gloom 
Fell heaviest, for the massy boughs had grown 

Into thich archways, as to vault the tomb. 



216 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



Stately they trod the hollow ringing aisle, 
A strange deep echo shuddering through the pile, 
Till crested heads at last, in silence bent 
Round the De Coucis' antique monument, 
When dust to dust was given : — and Aymer slept, 

Beneath the drooping banners of his line. 
Whose broidered folds the Syrian wind had swept 

Proudly and oft o'er fields of Palestine : 
So the sad rite was closed. — The sculptor gave 
Trophies, ere long, to deck that lordly grave, 
And the pale image of a youth, arrayed 
As warriors are for fight, but calmly laid 

In slumber on his shield. — Then all was done, 
All still, around the dead. — His name was heard 
Perchance when wine-cups flowed, and hearts 
were stirred 
By some old song, or tale of battle won. 
Told round the hearth : but in his father's breast 
Manhood's high passions woke again, and pressed 
On to their mark ; and in his friend's clear eye 
There dwelt no shadow of a dream gone by; 
And with the brethren of his fields, the feast 
Was gay as when the voice whose sounds had 

ceased 
Mingled with theirs. — Ev'n thus life's rushing 

tide 
Bears back affection from the grave's dark side : 
Alas! to think of this! — the heart's void place 
Filled up so soon! — so like a summer-cloud. 
All that we loved to pass and leave no trace ! — 

He lay forgotten in his early shroud. 
Forgotten! — not of all! — the sunny smile 
Glancing in play o'er that proud lip erewhile. 
And the dark locks whose breezy waving threw 
A gladness round, whene'er their shade withdrew 
From the bright brow; and all the sweetness ly- 
_ ing 
Within that eagle-eye's jet radiance deep, 
And all the music with that young voice dying. 

Whose joyous echoes made the quick heart leap 
As at a hunter's bugle — these things lived 
Still in one breast, whose silent love survived 
The pomps of kindred sorrow. — Day by day. 
On Aymer's tomb fresh flowers in garlands lay. 
Through the dim fane soft summer-odours breath- 
ing, 
And all the pale sepulchral trophies wreatliing. 
And with a flush of deeper brilliance glowing 
In the rich light, like molten rubies flowing 
Through storied windows down. The violet there 
Might speak of love — a secret love and lowly. 
And the rose image all things fleet and fair. 
And the faint passion-flower, the sad and holy. 
Tell of diviner hopes. But whose light hand, 
As for an altar, wove the radiant band? 
Whose gentle nurture brought, from hidden dells. 
That gem-like wealth of blossoms and sweet bells, 
To blush through every season 1 — Blight and chill 
Might touch the changing woods, but duly stilly > 



For years, those gorgeous coronals renewed, 

And brightly clasping marble spear and helm, 
Even through mid-winter, filled the solitude 

With a strange smile, a glow of summer's realm. 
Surely some fond and fervent heart was pouring 
Its youth's vain worship on the dust, adoring 
In lone devotedness! 

One spring-morn rose, 
And found, within that tomb's proud shadow 
laid — 
Oh ! not as midst the vineyards, to repose 
From the fierce noon — a dark-haired peasant 
maid: 
Who could reveal her story's — That still face 
Had once been fair; for on the clear arched 
brow. 
And the curved lip, there lingered yet such grace 
As sculpture gives its dreams ; and long and low 
The deep black lashes, o'er the half-shut eye — 
For death was on its lids — fell mournfully. 
But the cold cheek was sunk, the raven hair 
Dimmed the slight form all wasted, as by care. 
Whence came that early blight? — Her kindred's 

place 
Was not amidst the high De Couci race ; 
Yet there her shrine had been ! — She grasped a 

wreath — 
The tomb's last garland ! — This was love in death ! 



INDIAN WOMAN'S DEATH SONG. 

An Indian woman, driven to despair by her hus- 
band's desertion of her for another wife, entered a 
canoe with her children, and rowed it down the 
Mississippi toward a cataract. Her voice was 
heard from the shore singing a mournful death- 
song, until overpowered by the sound of the wa- 
ters in which she perished. The tale is related in 
Long's Expedition to the source of St. Peter's Ri- 
ver. 



Non, je ne puis vivre avec un coeur bris6. II faut que je 
reurouve la joie, et que je m'unisse auxesprits libres de I'air. 
Bride of Messina, 
Translated by Madame De Stael. 

Let not my child be a girl, for very sad is the life of a wo- 
man. The Prairie. 



Down a broad river of the western wilds, 
Piercing thick forest glooms, a light canoe 
Swept with the current : fearful was the speed 
Of the frail bark, as by a tempest's wing 
Borne leaf-like on to where the mist of spray 
Rose with the cataract's thunder. — Yet withm, 
Proudly, and dauntlessly, and all alone. 
Save that a babe lay sleeping at her breast, 
A woman stood : upon her Indian brow 



RECORDS OF WOMAN. 



217 



Sat a strange gladness, and her dark hair waved 
As if triumphantly. She pressed her child, 
In its bright slumber, to her beating heart, 
And lifted her sweet voice, that rose awhile 
Above the sound of waters, high and clear, 
Waft^ing a wild proud strain, her song of death. 

Roll swiftly to the Spirit'sland, thou mighty stream 

and free ! 
Father of ancient waters,(5) roll ! and bear our 

lives with thee ! 
The weary bird that storms have tossed, would 

seek the sunshine's calm. 
And the deer that hath the arrow's hurt, flies to 

the woods of balm. 

Roll on ! — my warrior's eye hath looked upon ano- 
ther's face. 

And mine hath faded from his soul, as fades a 
moonbeam's trace ; 

My shadow comes not o'er his path, my whisper 
to his dream, 

He flings away the broken reed — roll swift^er yet, 
thou stream ! 

The voice that spoke of other days is hushed with- 
in his breast. 

But mine its lonely music haunts, and will not let 
me rest ; 

It sings a low and mournful song of gladness that 
is gone, 

I can not live without that light — Father of waves ! 
roll on 1 

Will he not miss the bounding step that met him 
from the chase 1 

The heart of love that made his home an ever sun- 
ny place 7 

The hand that spread the hunter's board, and 
decked his couch of yore 7 — 

He will not ! — roll, dark foaming stream, on to the 
better shore ! 

Some blessed fount amidst the woods of that bright 
land must flow. 

Whose waters from my soul may have the memo- 
ry of this wo ; 

Some gentle wind must whisper there, whose 
breath may waft away 

The burden of the heavy night, the sadness of the 
day. 

And thou, my babe ! though born, like me, for 

woman's weary lot, 
Smile I — to that wasting of the heart, my own ! I 

leave thee not ; 
Too bright a thing art thou to pine in aching love 

away. 
Thy mother bears thee far, young Fawn ! from 

sorrow and decay. 



She bears thee to the glorious bowers where none 
are heard to weep, 

And where th' unkind one hath no power again 
to trouble sleep ; 

And where the soul shall find its youth, as waken- 
ing from a dream, — 

One moment, and that realm is ours — On, on, dark 
rolling stream ! 



JOAN OF ARC, IN RHEIMS. 

Jeanne d'Arc avait eu la joie de voir a Chalons 
quelques amis de son enfance. Une joie plus in- 
efliable encore I'attendait a Rheims, au sein de son 
triomphe : Jacques d'Arc, son pere y se trouva, 
aussitot que de troupes de Charles VII. y furent 
entrees ; et comme les deux freres do notre Heroine 
I'avaicnt accompagnes, clle se vit, pour un instant 
au milieu de sa famille, dans les bras d'un pere 
vertueux. — Vie de Jeanne d'Arc. 



Thou hast a charmed cup, O Fame ! 

A drauglu that mantles liigh, 
And seems to hft this earth-horn frame 

Above mortality : 
Away I to me — a woman — ^bring 
Sweet waters fi'om affection's spring. 



That was a joyous day in Rheims of old, 
When peal on peal of mighty music rolled 
Forth from her thronged cathedral ; while around, 
A multitude, whose billows made no sound. 
Chained to a hush of wonder, though elate 
With victory, listened at their temple's gate. 
And what was done within 1 — within, the light 

Through the rich gloom of pictured windows 
flowing, 
Tinged with soft; awfulncss a stately sight. 

The chivalry of France, their proud heads bow- 
ing 
In martial vassalage ! — while midst that ring. 
And shadowed by ancestral tombs, a king 
Received his birthright's crown. For this, the 

hymn 
Swelled out like rushing waters, and the day 
With the sweet censer's misty breath grew dim, 

As through long aisles it floated o'er th' array 
Of arms and sweeping stoles. But who, alone 
And unapproached, beside the altar-stone, 
With the white banner, forth like sunshine stream- 
ing, 
And the gold helm, through clouds of fragrance 

gleaming, 
Silent and radiant stood! — the helm was raised, 
And the fair face revealed, that upward gazed. 

Intensely worshipping: — a still, clear face. 
Youthful, but brightly solemn ! — Woman's cheek 
And brow were there, in deep devotion meek, 



CIS 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



Yot jxloritied with inspiratioti's trace 
On its pure piilouess; whilo, onthvoiu\l above, 
The pictured viroin, with lier smile ol" love, 
Seenuxi beiKUiijj o'er her votaivss. — That slight 

Ibnn ! 
"Was that the leader through the battle-storm '■ 
Had the sort light in that adoring eye, 
Guided the warrior where the swords llaslied 

high? 
'T was so, e\eu so! — and tlioii, the shepherd's 

child, 
Joanne, the lowly divamer of the wild ! 
Never before, and never since that hour. 
Hath woman, mantled with victorious power. 
Stood forth as Utoti beside the shrine didst stand. 
Holy amidst the knighthood of the land; 
And beautiful with joy and with renown, 
Lit\ tliy white banner o'er the olden crown. 
Ransomed t'or France by thee! 

Tlu> ntes arc done. 
Now let the dome with trumpet-notes be shaken. 
And bid the echoes of the tombs awaken, 
And come thou forth, that Heaven's rejoicing 
sun 
JMay give thee welcome trom thine own blue skies, 

Dauglitcr of victory ! — a triumphant strain, 
A proud rich stream of warlike melodies. 

Gushed through t!ie portals of the antique fane. 
And I'orth she came. — Then rose a nation's 

sou ml — 
Oh! what a power to bid the quick heart bound. 
The wind bears onward with the stormy cheer 
jNIan give to glory on her high career ! 
Is there indeed such power ! — t'ar deeper dwells 
In one kind household voice, to reach the cells 
AVhence happiness liows forth ! — The shouts that 

rilled 
The hollow heaven tempestuously, were stilled 
One moment ; and in that brief pause, the tone, 
As of a breeze that o'er her home had blown. 
Sank on the bright maid's heart. — "Joanne! — 

Who spoke 
Like those whose childhood with her cliildhood 
grew 
Under one ri\if? — "Joainic!" — that murnuir 

broke 
With sounds of weeping forth ! — She turned — 
she knew 
Beside her. marked from all the thousands there. 
In the calm beauty of his silver hair. 
The stately shepherd; and the youth, whose joy 
Fronr his d;vrk eye tlashed proudly : and the boy 
The youngest-born, that ever loved her best ; 
'■ Father! and ye, my brothers!" — On the breast 
Of that gray sire she sank — and switlly back, 
Ev'n in an instant, to their native track 
Her free tlioughts flowed. — She saw the pomp no 

more — 
The plumes, the banners: — to her cabin-door. 



And to the Fairy's foimtain in the glade,(i)) 
Where her young sisters by her side had played, 
And to her hamlet's chapel, where it rose 
Hallowing the forest unto deep repose, 
Her spirit turned. — The very wood-note, sung 

In early spring-time by the bird, which dwelt 
Where o'er her father's roof the beech-leaves hung, 

Was in her heart ; a nnisic heard and felt, 
Wimiing her back to nature. — She unbound 

The helm of many battles from her head, 
And, with her bright locks bowed to sweep the 
ground. 

Filling her voice up, wept for joy, and said, — 
"Klcss me, my tather, bless nic! and with thee, 
To the still cabin and the beechen-treo. 
Let me return!" 

Oh! never did thine eye 
Through the green haunts of happy infancy 
Wander again, Joanne .' — too nmch of lame 
Had shed its radiance on thy peasant name; 
And bought alone by gitls beyond all price, 
The trusting heart's repose, the paradise 
Of home with all it loves, doth fate allow 
The crown of glory unto woman's brow. 



FAULINE. 



Til ilia for what we love I — Oh ! there is ix)wer 

In (lie true liean, and pride, and joy, lor Mis; 

It is 10 lire without the vanislied light 

That strengtli is needed. 

C<>si u-apassa al trapass;u- il'un Gionio 
l>ella vita mortal U fiore e'l veide. 

Tasso. 



Ai.ONi.1 the star-lit Seine went nuisic swcllinor, 
Till the air thrilled with its exulting mirth ; 

Proudly it floated, even as if no dweUing 
For cares or stricken hearts were found on 
earth ; 

And a glad sound the measure lightly beat, 

A happy chime of many dancing feet. 

For in a palace of the land that night. 
Lamps, and fresh roses, and green leaves were 
hung, 

And from the painteil walls a stream of light 
On tlying forms beneath solt splendour tlung: 

But loveUest ti\r amidst the revel's pride 

Was one, the lady from the Danube-side.(7) 

Pauline, the meekly bright ! — though now no more 
Her clear eve flashed with youth's all tameless 
glee, 

Yet something holier than its dayspring wore. 
There in soft rest lay beautiful to see; 

A charm with graver, tenderer, sweetness fraught — 

The blending of deep love and matron thought. 



RECORDS OF WOMAN. 



219 



Through the (^ay throng she moved, Korcncly fair, 
And Huch calm joy as fills a inoonlii^ht wky, 

Sate on her brow beneath its graceful hair, 
As her young daughter in the dance went by, 

With the fleet btep of one that yet hath known 

Smiles and kind voices in this world alone. 

Lurked there no secret boding in her breast 1 
Did no faint whisper warn of evil nigh? 

Such oft awake when most the heart seems blest 
Midst the light laughter of festivity : 

Whence come those tones! — Alas! enough we 
know, 

To mingle fear with all triumphal show ! 

Who spoke of evil, when young feet were flying 
In fairy rings around the eclioing halH 

Soft airs through braided locks in perfume sighing, 
Glad pulses beating unto music's calll 

Silence ! — the minstrels pause — and hark ! a sound, 

A strange quick rustling which their notes had 
drowned! 

And lo! a light upon the dancers breaking — 
Not such their clear and silvery lamps had shed! 

From the gay dream of revelry awaking. 

One moment holds them still in breathless dread; 

The wild fierce lustre grows — then bursts a cry — 

Fire ! through the hall and round it gathering — fly ! 

And forth they rash — as chased by sword and 
spear — 
To the green coverts of the garden-bowers ; 
A gorgeous masque of pageantry and fear, 

Startling the birds and trampling down the 
flowers: 
While from the dome behind, red sparkles driven 
Pierce the dark stillness of the midnight heaven. 

And where is she, Pauline? — the hurrying throng 
Have swept her onward, as a stormy blast 

Might sweep some faint o'erwearied bird along — 
Till now the threshold of that death is past, 

And free she stands beneath the starry skies, 

Calling her child— but no sweet voice replies. 

"Bertha! where art thou'' — Speak, oh! speak, 
my own!" 
Alas ! unconscious of her pangs the while. 
The gentle girl, in fear's cold grasp alone. 

Powerless hath sunk within the blazing pile; 
A young bright form, decked gloriously for death, 
With flowers all shrinking from the flame's fierce 
breath ! 

But oh ! thy strength, deep love ! — there is no power 
To stay the mother from that rolling grave, 

Though fast on high the fiery volumes lower. 
And forth, like banners, from each lattice wave ; 

Back, back she rushes through a host combined — 

Mighty is anguish, with affection twined ! 



And what bold step may follow, midst the roar 
Of the r(!(l billows, o'er their prey that rise? 

None ! — Couragri there aUxtd still— and never more 
Did those fair forms emerge on human eyes! 

Was one brief meeting theirs, one wild farewell ? 

And died they heart to heart! — Oh! who can tell"? 

Freshly and cloudlessly the morning broke 
On that sad palace, midst its pleasure-shades ; 

Its painted roofs had sunk — yet black with smoke 
And lonely stood its marble olonnades : 

But yester-eve their shafts with wreaths were 
bound ! — 

Now lay the scene one shrivelled scroll around 

And bore the ruins no recording trace 

Of all that woman's heart had dared and donel 

Yes! there were gems to mark its mortal place, 
That forth from dust and ashes dimly shone! 

Those had the mother on her gentle breast, 

Worn round her child's fair image, there at rest. 

And they were all! — the tender and the true 
Left this alone her sacrifice to prove, 

Hallowing the spot where mirth once lightly flew, 
To deep, lone, chastened thoughts of grief and 
love. 

Oh ! we have need of patient faith below, 

To clear away the mysteries of such wo ! 



JUANA. 

Juana, mother of the Emperor Charles V., upon 
the death of her husband, Philip the Handsome of 
Austria, who had treated her with uniform neglect, 
had his body laid upon a bed of state in a magni- 
ficent dress, and being possessed with the idea that 
it would revive, watched it for a length of time in- 
cessantly, wailing for the moment of returning 
life. 



It ia but dust tliou look'st upon. This love, 
This wild and pafisionate idolatry, 
What doth it in the sharJow of the gravel 
Gather it back within thy lonely heart, 
So must it ever end : too much we give 
Unto the things that perish. 



The night-wind shook the tapestry round an an- 
cient palace-room. 

And torches, as it rose and fell, waved through the 
gorgeous gloom. 

And o'er a shadowy regal couch threw fitful gleams 
and red. 

Where a woman with long raven hair sat watch- 
ing by the dead. 



220 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



Pale shone the features of the deaJ, yet glorious 

still to see, 
Like a hunter or a chief struck down while his 

heart and step were free ; 
No shroud he wore, no robe of death, but there 

majestic lay. 
Proudly and sadly glittering in royalty's array. 

But she that with the dark hair watched by the 
cold sluniberer's side, 

On her wan cheek no beauty dwelt, and in her 
garb no pride ; 

Only her full impassioned eyes as o'er that clay 
she bent, 

A wildness and a tenderness in strange resplen- 
dence blent. 

And as the swift thourrhts crossed her soul, like 

shadows of a cloud, 
Amidst the silent room of death, the dreamer spoke 

aloud ; 
She spoke to him who could not hear, and cried, 

" Thou yet wilt wake, 
And learn my watchings and my tears, beloved 

one ! for thy sake. 

" They told me this was death, but well I knew it 

could not be ; 
Fairest and stateliest of the earth ! who spoke of 

death for thee? 
They would have wrapped the funeral shroud thy 

gallant form around. 
But I forbade — and there thou art, a monarch, 

robed and crowned ! 

'' With all thy bright locks gleaming still, their co- 
ronal beneath. 

And thy brow so proudly beautiful — who said that 
this was death 7 

Silence hath been upon thy lips, and stillness round 
thee long. 

But the hopeful spirit in my breast is all undimmed 
and strong. 

" I know thou hast not loved me yet ; I am not 
fair like thee. 

The very glance of whose clear eye threw round 
a light of glee ! 

A frail and drooping form is mine— a cold unsmil- 
ing cheek. 

Oh ! I have hut a woman's heart, wherewith thy 
heart to seek. 

" But when thou wak'st, my prince, my lord! and 

hear'st how I have kept 
A lonely vigil by thy side, and o'er thee prayed and 

wept ; 
How in one long deep dream of thee my nights 

and days have past, 
Surely that humble, patient love, must win back 

love at last ! 



"And thou wilt smile — my own, my own, shall 

be the sunny smile, 
Which brightly fell, and joyously, on all l^ut me 

erewhilc ! 
No more in vain affccUon's thirst my weary soul 

shall pine — 
Oh ! ycai-s of hope deferred were paid by one fond 

glance of thine ! 

" Thou 'It meet me in that radiant look when thou 

comest from the chase. 
For me, for me, in festal halls it shall kindle o'er 

thy face ! 
Thou 'It reck no more though beauty's gift mine 

aspect may not bless ; 
In thy kind eyes tliis deep, deep love, shall give 

me loveliness. 

"But wake ! my heart within me burns, yet once 

more to rejoice 
In the sound to which it ever leaped, the music of 

thy voice : 
Awake ! I sit in solitude, that thy first look and 

tone, 
And the gladness of thine opening eyes may all be 

mine alone." 

In the still chambers of the dust, thus poured forth 

day by day. 
The passion of that loving dream from a troubled 

soul found way, 
Until the shadows of the grave hath swept o'er 

every grace. 
Left midst the awfulness of death on the princely 

form and face. 

And slowly broke the fearful truth upon the watch- 
er's breast. 

And they bore away the royal dead with requiems 
to his rest. 

With banners and with knightly plumes all wav- 
ing in the wind — 

But a woman's broken heart was left in its lone 
despair behind. 



THE AMERICAN FOREST GIRL. 



A fearful gift upon thy heart is laid, 
Woman ! — a power to suffer and to love, 
Therefore thou so canst pity. 



Wildly and mournfully the Indian drum 

On the deep hush of moonlight forests broke; — 

" Sing us a death-song, for thine hour is come," — 
So the red warriors to their captive spoke. 

Still, and amidst those dusky forms alone, 
A youth, a fair-haired youth of England stood, 



RECORDS OF WOMAN. 



221 



Like a king's son; though from his cheek had 
flown 
The mantlinjr crimson of the islanr]-bloo<], 
And his pressed lips looked marble.— Fiercely 

bright, 
And high around him, blazed the fires of night. 
Rocking beneath the cedars to and fro, 
As the wind pas.scd, and with a fitful glow 
Lighting the victim's face: — But who could tell 
Of what within his secret heart bcfel. 
Known but to heaven that hour ^ — Perchance a 

thought 
Of his far home then so intensely wrought, 
That its full image, pictured to his eye 
On the dark ground of mortal agony 
Rose clear as day ! — and he might see the band, 
Of his young sisters wandering hand in hand, 
Where the laburnum drooped ; or haply binding 
The jasmine, up the door's low pillars winding; 
Or, as day closed upon their gentle mirth. 
Gathering with braided hair, around the hearth 
Where sat their mother ; — and that mother's face 
Its grave sweet smile yet wearing in the place 
Where so it ever smiled ! — Perchance the prayer 
Lcarne<l at her knee came back on his despair; 
The blessing from her voice, the very tone 
Of her " Good-night,'' might breathe from boy- 
hood gone ! — 
He started and looked up : — thick cj^ircss boughs 
Full of strange sound, waved o'er him, darkly 
red 
In the broad stormy firelight; — savage brows. 
With tall plumes crested and wild hues o'er- 
spread, 
Girt him like feverish phantoms ; and pale stars 
Looked through the branches as through dungeon 

bars. 
Shedding no hope. — He knew, he felt his doom — 
Oh ! what a tale to shadow with its gloom 
That happy hall in England ! — Idle fear ! 
Would the winds tell it 1 — Who might dream or 

hear 
The secret of the forests 1 — To the stake 

They bound him ; and that proud young soldier 
strove 
His father's spirit in his breast to wake, 

Trusting to die in silence ! He, the love 
Of many hearts I — the fondly reared, — the fair. 
Gladdening all eyes to see! — And fettered there 
He stood beside his death-pyre, and the brand 
Flamed up to light it, in the chieftain's hand. 
He thought upon his God. — Hush ! hark! — a cry 
Breaks on the stern and dread solemnity, — 
A step hath pierced the ring ! — Who dares intrude 
On the dark hunters in their vengeful mood 1 — 
A girl — a young slight girl — a fawn-like child 
Of green Savannas and the leafy wild. 
Springing unmarked till then, as some lone flower, 
Happy because the sunshine J5 its dower ; 
24 



Yet one that knew how early tears are shed, — 
For hers had mourned a playmate brother dead. 

She had sat gazing on the victim long, 
Until the pity of her soul grew strong ; 
And, by its passion's deepening fervour swayed, 
Ev'n to the stake she rushed, and gently laid 
His bright head on her bo.som, and around 
His form her slender arms to shield it wound 
Like close Liannes ; then raised her glittering eye 
And clear-toned voice that said, '" He shall not 
die !" 

" He shall not die!" — the gloomy forest thrilled 
To that sweet sound. A sudden wonder fell 

On the fierce throng ; and heart and hand were 
stilled. 
Struck down, as by the whisper of a spell. 

They gazed, — their dark souls bowed before the 
inaid. 

She of the dancing step in wood and glade ! 

And, as her cheek flushed through its olive hue, 

As her black tresses to the night-wind flew. 

Something o'ermastered them from that young 
mien — 

Something of heaven, in silence felt and seen; 

And seeming, to their child-like faith, a token 

That the Great Spirit by her voice had spoken. 

They loosed the bonds that held their captive's 

breath : 
From his pale lips they took the cup of death 
They quenched the brand beneath the cypress 

tree; 
"Away," they cried, "young stranger, thou art 

free!" 



COSTANZA. 



-Art thou then desolate 1 



Of friends, of hopra forsaken '/ — Coine to me I 

I am thine own. — Have trusted hearts proved falseT 

Flatterers deceived theel Wanderer come to me ! 

Why didst thou ever leave me 1 Kiww'st thou all 

I would have borne, and called It joy to i>ea.r, 

For thy sake? Know'st thou that thy voice bad power 

To shake me with a thrill of happiness 

By one kind tone ? — to fill mine eyes with tears 

Of yearning love'} And thou— oh ! thou didst throw 

That crashed afTection back upon my heart ; — 

Yet come to me ! — it died not. 



She knelt in prayer. A stream of sunset fell 
Through the stained window of her lonely cell, 
And with its rich, deep, melancholy glow 
Flushing her cheek and pale Madonna-brow, 
While o'er her long hair's flowing jet it threw 
Bright waves of gold — the autumn forest's hue- 
Seemed all a vision's mist of glory, spread 
By painting's touch around some holy head, 



223 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



Virgin's or fairest martyr's. In her eye, 
Which glanced as dark clear water to the sky, 
What solemn fervour lived 1 And yet what wo, 
Lay like some buried thing, till seen below 
The glassy tide ! Oh ! he that could reveal 
What life had taught that chastened heart to feel, 
Might speak indeed of woman's blighted years, 
And wasted love, and vainly bitter tears ! 
But she had told her griefs to heaven alone, 
And of the gentle saint no more was known, 
Than that she fled the world's cold breath, and 

made 
A temple of the pine and chestnut shade, 
Filling its depths with soul, whene'er her hymn 
Rose through each murmur of the green, and dim, 
And ancient solitude ; where hidden streams 
Went moaning through the grass, like sounds in 

dreams, 
Music for weary hearts ! Midst leaves and flowers 
She dwelt, and knew all secrets of their powers. 
All nature's balms, wherewith her gliding tread 
To the sick peasant on his lowly bed. 
Came, and brought hope; whilescarceof mortal birth 
He deemed the pale fair form, that held on earth 
Communion but with grief 

Ere long a cell, 
A rock-hewn chapel rose, a cross of stone 
Gleamed through the dark trees o'er a sparkling 
well. 
And a sweet voice, of rich, yet mournful tone. 
Told the Calabrian wilds, that duly there 
Costanza lifted her sad heart in prayer. 
And now 't was prayer's own hour. That voice 

again 
Through the dim foliage sent its heavenly strain, 
That made the cypress quiver where it stood 
In day's last crimson soaring from the wood 
Like spiry flame. But as the bright sun set. 
Other and wider sounds in tumult met 
The floating song. Strange sounds ! — the trum- 
pet's peal, 
Made hollow by the rocks 5 the clash of steel, 
The rallying war-cry.— In the mountain-pass. 
There had been combat : blood was on the grass. 
Banners had strewn the waters ; chiefs lay dying. 
And the pine-branches crashed before the flying. 

And all was changed within the still retreat, 
Costanza's home : — there entered hurrying feet. 
Dark looks of shame and sorrow ; mail-clad men, 
Stern fugitives from that wild battle-glen, 
Scaring the ringdoves from the porch-roof, bore 
A wounded warrior in : the rocky floor 
Gave back deep echoes to his clanging sword, 
As there they laid their leader, and implored 
The sweet saint's prayers to heal him ; then for 

flight. 
Through the wide forest and the mantling night, 



Sped breathlessly again. — They passed — but he. 
The stateliest of a host — alas! to see 
What mother's eyes have watched in rosy sleep 
Till joy, for very fulness, turned to weep 
Thus changed ! — a fearful thing ! His golden crest 
Was shivered, and the bright scarf on his breast — 
Some costly love-gift — rent ; — but what of these 1 
There were the clustering raven-locks — the breeze 
As it came in through lime and myrtle flowers, 
Might scarcely lift them — steeped in bloody show- 
ers 
So heavily upon the pallid clay 
Of the damp cheek they hung ! the eye's dark ray — 
Where was it 1 — and the lips ! — they gasped apart. 
With their light curve, as from the chisel's art. 
Still proudly beautiful ! but that white hue — 
Was it not death's? — that stillness — that cold dew 
On the scarred forehead 1 No ! his spirit broke 
From its deep trance ere long, yet but awoke 
To wander in wild dreams ; and there he lay. 
By the fierce fever as a green reed shaken, 
The haughty chief of thousands — the forsaken 
Of all save one ! — She fled not. Day by day — 
Such hours are woman's birthright — she, unknown, 
Kept watch beside him, fearless and alone ; 
Binding his wounds, and oft in silence laving 
His brow with tears that mourned the strong man's 

raving. 
He felt them not, nor marked the light veiled form 
Still hovering nigh; yet sometimes, when that 
storm 

Of frenzy sank, her voice, in tones as low 
As a young mother's by the cradle singing. 
Would sooth him with sweet aves, gently bringing 

Moments of slumber, when the fiery glow • 
Ebbed from his hollow cheek. 

At last faint gleams 
Of memory dawned upon the cloud of dreams, 
And feebly lifting, as a child, his head, 
And gazing round him from his leafy bed. 
He murmured forth, "Where am H What soft 

strain 
Passed, Uke a breeze, across my burning brain? 
Back from my youth it floated, with a tone 
Of life's first music, and a thought of one — 
Where is she nowl and where the gauds of pride 
Whose hollow splendour lured me from her side 1 
All lost ! — and this is death ! — I can not die 
Without forgiveness from that mournful eye ! 
Away ! the earth hath lost her. Was she born 
To brook abandonment, to strive with scorn 1 
My first, my holiest love!— her broken heart 
Lies low, and I — unpardoned I depart." 

But then Costanza raised the shadowy veil 
From her dark locks and features brightly pale, 
And stood before him with a smile — oh ! ne'er 
Did aught that smiled so much of sadness wear— 



RECORDS OF WOMAN. 



223 



And sail], " Cesario ! look on me ; I live 
To say my heart hath bled, and can forgive. 
I loved tliee with such worship, such deep trust 
As should be Heaven's alone — and Heaven is just! 
I bless thee — be at peace !" 

But o'er his frame 
Too fast the strong tide rushed — the sudden 

shame, 
The joy, th' amaze! — he bowed his head — it fell 
On the wronged bosom which had loved so well ; 
And love still perfect, gave him refuge there, — 
His last faint breath just waved her floating hair. 



MADELINE. 

A DOMESTIC TALE.* 



Who should it be 1 — Where shouldst thou look for kindness 'i 
When we are sick where can we turn for succour, 
When we are wretched where can we complain; 
And when the world looks cold and surly on us, 
Where can we go to meet a warmer eye 
With Buch sure confidence as to a mother 7 , 

JoaAna Baillie. 



" My child, my child, thou leav'st me ! — I shall 

hear 
The gentle voice no more that blest mine ear 
With its first utterance ; I shall miss the sound 
Of thy light step amidst the flowers around, 
And thy soft breathing hymn at twilight's close, 
And thy " Good-night" at parting for repose. 
Under the vine-leaves I shall sit alone. 
And the low breeze will have a mournful tone 
Amidst their tendrils, while I think of thee. 
My child! and thou, along the moonlight sea. 
With a soft sadness haply in thy glance, 
Shalt watch thine own, thy pleasant land of 

France, 
Fading to air. — Yet blessings with thee go ! 
Love guard thee, gentlest ! and the exile's wo 
From thy young heart be far ! — And sorrow not 
For me, sweet daughter! in my lonely lot, 
God shall be with me. — Now farewell, farewell ! 
Thou that hast been what words may never tell 
Unto thy mother's bosom, since the days 
When thou wert pillowed there, and wont to raise 
In sudden laughter thence thy loving eye 
That still sought mine : — these moments are gone 

by, 

Thou too must go, my flower! — Yet with thee 
dwell 

The peace of God ! — One, one more gaze — fare- 
well!"' 

This was a mother's parting with her child, 

A young meek Bride on whom fair fortune smiled, 



* Originally published in the Literary Souvenir for 182S. 



And wooed her with a voice of love away 
From childhood's home ; yet there, with fond delay 
She lingered on the threshold, heard the note 
Of her caged bird through trellised rose-leaves 

float. 
And fell upon her mother's neck, and wept, 
Whilst old remembrances, that long had slept, 
Gushed o'er her soul, and many a vanished day, 
As in one picture traced, before her lay. 

But the farewell was said ; and on the deep, 
When its breast heaved in sunset's golden sleep, 
With a calmed heart, young Madeline ere long 
Poured forth her own sweet solemn vesper-sontr, 
Breathing of home : through stillness heard afar 
And duly rising with the first pale star, 
That voice was on the waters; till at last 
The sounding ocean-solitudes were passed, 
And the bright land was reached, the youthful 

world 
That glows along the West : the sails were furled 
In its clear sunshine, and the gentle bride 
Looked on the home that promised hearts untried 
A bower of bliss to come. — Alas ! we trace 
The map of our own paths, and long ere years 
With their dull steps the brilliant lines efface, 
On sweeps the storm, and blots them out with 

tears. 
That home was darkened soon : the summer breeze 
Welcomed with death the wanderers from the seas, 
Death unto one, and anguish how forlorn! 
To her, that widowed in her marriage-morn, 
Sat in her voiceless dwelling, whence with him, 

Her bosom's first beloved, her friend and guide, 
Joy had gone forth, and left the green earth dim, 

As from the sun shut out on every side, 
By the close veil of misery! — Oh! but ill. 

When with rich hopes o'erfraught, the young 
high heart 

Bears its first blow ! — it knows not yet the part 
Which life will teach — to suffer and be still. 
And with submissive love to count the flowers 
Which yet are spared, and through the future 

hours 
To send no busy dream! — She had not learned 
Of sorrow till that hour, and therefore turned, 
In weariness from hfe : then came th' unrest, 
The heart-sick yearning of the exile's breast. 
The liaunting sounds of voices far away. 
And household steps; until at last she lay 
On her lone couch of sickness, lost in dreams 
Of the gay vineyards and blue-rushing streams 
In her own sunny land, and murmuring oft 
Familiar names, in accents wild, yet soft. 
To strangers round that bed, who knew not aught 
Of the deep spells wherewith each word was 

fraught. 
To strangers 1 — Oh! could strangers raise the 

head 
Gently as hers was raised? — did strangers shed 



224 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS, 



The kindly tears which bathed that feverish brow 
And wasted cheek with half unconscious flow ? 
Something was there, that through the Ungering 

night 
Outwatclies patiently the taper's light, 
Something that faints not thro' the day's distress. 
That fears not toil, that knows not weariness ; 
Love, true and perfect love ! — Whence came that 

power, 
Uprearing through the storm the drooping flower 7 
Whence"? who can ask 1 the wild delirium passed. 
And from her eyes the spirit looked at last 
Into her mother's face, and wakening knew 
The brow's calm grace, the hair's dear silvery hue. 
The kind sweet smile of old ! — and had she come. 
Thus in life's evening, from her distant home, 
To save her child 1 — E'en so — nor yet in vain: 
In that young heart a light sprung up again, 
And lovely still, with so much love to give, 
Seemed this fair world, though faded ; still to live 
Was not to pine forsaken. On the breast 
That rocked her childhood, sinking in soft rest, 
" Sweet mother, gentlest mother ! can it bel" 
The lorn one cried, " and do I look on theel 
Take back thy wanderer from this fatal shore, 
Peace shall be ours beneath our vines once more." 



THE aUEEN OF PRUSSIA'S TOMB. 

" This tomb is in the garden of Charlottenburgh, 
near Berlin. It was not without surprise that I 
came suddenly, among trees, upon a fair white 
Doric temple. I might, and should have deemed 
it a mere adornment of the grounds, but the cyress 
and the willow declare it a habitation of the dead. 
Upon a sarcophagus of white marble lay a sheet, 
and the outline of the human form was plainly 
visible beneath its folds. The person with me re- 
verently turned it back, and displayed the statue 
of his Clueen . It is a portrait-statue recumbent, said 
to be a perfect resemblance — not as in death, but 
when she lived to bless and be blessed. Nothing 
can be more calm and kind than the expression of 
her features. The hands are folded on the bosom; 
the limbs are sufficiently crossed to show the re- 
pose of life. Here the King brings her children 

annually, to offer garlands at her grave. These 
hang in withered mournfulness above this living 
image of their departed mother. — Sherber's Notes 
and Rejiections during a Ramble in Germany. 



In sweet pride upon that insult keen 

She smiled ; then drooping mute and broken-hearted, 

To the cold comfort of the grave departed. — Milman. 

It stands where northern willows weep, 

A temple fair and lone ; 
Soft shadows o'er its marble sweep, ' 

From cypress-branches thrown ; 



While silently around it spread. 
Thou feel'st the presence of the dead. 

And what within is richly shrined 1 

A sculptured woman's form, 
Lovely in perfect rest reclined, 

As one beyond the storm : 
Yet not of death, but slumber, lies 
The solemn sweetness on those eyes. 

The folded hands, the calm pure face, 

The mantle's quiet flow. 
The gentle, yet majestic grace. 

Throned on the matron brow ; 
These, in that scene of tender gloom, 
With a still glory robe the tomb. 

There stands an eagle, at the feet 

Of the fair image wrought ; 
A kingly emblem — nor unmeet 

To wake yet deeper thought : 
She whose high heart finds rest below, 
Was royal in her birth and wo. 

There are pale garlands hung above. 

Of dying scent and hue ; — 
She was a mother — in her love 

How sorrowfully true ! 
Oh ! hallowed long be every leaf. 
The record of her children's grief ! 

She saw their birthright's warrior crown 

. Of olden glory spoiled. 
The standard of their sires bore down, 

The shield's bright blazon soiled : 
She met the tempest meekly brave, 
Then turned, o'erwearied, to the grave. 

She slumbered ; but it came — it came, 

Her land's redeeming hour, 
With the glad shout, and signal-flanie. 

Sent on from tower to tower ! 
Fast through the realm a spirit moved — 
'T was her's, the lofty and the loved. 

Then was her name a note that rung 
To rouse bold hearts from sleep, 

Her memory, as a banner flung 
Forth by the Baltic deep ; 

Her grief, a bitter vial poured 

To sanctify th' avenger's sword. 

And the crowned eagle spread again 
His pinion to the sun ; 

And the strong land shook off its chain- 
So was the triumph won ! 

But wo for earth, where sorrow's tone 

Still blends with victory's ! — She was gone !* 



' Originally published in the Monthly Magazine, 



RECORDS OF WOMAN. 



225 



THE MEMORIAL PILLAR. 

On tlie road side between Penrith and Appleby, 
stands a small pillar, with this inscription : — " Tliis 
pillar was erected in the year 1656, by Ann, 
Countess Dowager of Pembroke, for a memorial 
of lier last parting, in this place, with her good and 
pious mother, Margaret, Countess Dowager of 
Cumberland, on the 2d April, 1616. — See Notes to 
the " Pleasures of Memory." 



Hast tlioii, through Eden's wild-wood vales pursued 

Each mountain-scene, magnificently rude, 

Nor with attention's lifted eye, revered 

Tliat modest stone, by pious Pembroke reared, 

Which still records, beyond the pencil's power, 

The silent sorrows of a parting houi' ? 

Rogers. 



Mother and child ! whose blending tears 

Have sanctified the place. 
Where, to the love of many years, 

Was given one last embrace ; 
Oh ! ye have shrined a spell of power. 
Deep in your record of that hour ! 

A spell to waken solemn thought, 

A still, small under-tone, 
That calls back days of childhood, fraught 

With many a treasure gone ; 
And smites, perchance, the hidden source, 
Though long untroubled — of remorse. 

For who, that gazes on the stone 
Which marks your parting spot, 

Who but a mother's love hath known, 
The one love changing nof] 

Alas 1 and haply learned its worth 

First with the sound of " Earth to earth?" 

But thou, high-hearted daughter! thou, 
O'er whose bright, honoured head. 

Blessings and tears of holiest flow, 
E'en here weie fondly shed, 

Thou from the passion of thy grief. 

In its full burst, couldst draw relief 

For oh ! though painful be th' exce.ss, 
The might wherewith it swells, 

In nature's fount no bitterness 
Of nature's mingling, dwells ; 

And thou hadst not, by wrong or pride, 

Poisoned the free and healthful tide. 

But didst thou meet the face no more. 
Which thy young heart first knew ? 

And all — was all in this world o'er, 
With ties thus close and true 1 

It was ! — On earth no other eye 

Could give thee back thine infancy. 



No other voice could pierce the maze 
Where deep within thy breast, 

The sounds and dreams of other days, 
With memory lay at rest ; 

No other smile to thee could bring 

A gladdening, like the breath of spring. 

Yet, while thy place of weeping still 

Its lone memorial keeps. 
While on thy name midst wood and hill, 

The quiet sunshine sleeps, 
And touches, in each graven line. 
Of reverential thought a sign ; 

Can I, while yet these tokens wear 

The impress of the dead, 
Think of the love embodied there, 

As of a vision fled ? 
A perished thing, the joy and flower 
And glory of one earthly hour 7 

Not so ! — I will not bow me so 
To thoughts that breathe despair! 

A loftier faith we need below, 
Life's farewell words to bear. 

Mother and child! — Your tears are past— 

Surely your hearts have met at last! 



THE GRAVE OF A POETESS.* 

" Ne me plaignez pas — si vous saviez 

Conibien de peines ce tombeau m'a epargndes !" 

I STOOD beside tliy lowly grave ; — 
Spring odours breathed around, 

And music, in the river-wave, 
Passed with a lulUng sound. 

All happy things that love the sun 
In the bright air glanced by 

And a glad murmur seemed to run 
Through the soft azure sky. 

Fresh leaves were on the ivy-bough 
That fringed the ruins near; 

Young voices were abroad — but thou 
Their sweetness couldst not hear. 

And mournful grew my heart for thee. 
Thou in whose woman's mind 

The ray that brightens earth and sea, 
The li^ht of song was shrined. 



Extrinsic interest has lately attached to the fine scenery 
of Woodstock, near Kilkenny, on accoimt of its liaving been 
the last residence of the author of Psyche. Her grave is one 
of many in the church-yard of the villa^'e. The river runs 
smoothly by. The ruins of an ancient abbey that have been 
partially converted into a church, reverently throw their man- 
tle of tender shadow over it.— rotes 6y tlie O'Hara F\imili/. 



226 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



Mournful, that thou wert slumbering low, 

With a dread curtain drawn 
Between thee and the golden glow 

Of this world's vernal dawn. 

Parted from all the song and bloom, 
Thou wouldst have loved so well, 

To thee the sunshine round thy tomb 
Was but a broken spell. 

The bird, the insect on the wing, 

In their bright reskless play, 
Might feel the flush and life of spring, 

And thou wert passed away ! 

But then, ev'n then, a nobler thought 

O'er my vain sadness came; 
Th' immortal spirit woke, and wrought 

Within my thrilling frame. 

Surely on lovelier things, I said, 
Thou must have looked, ere now, 

Than all that round our pathway shed 
Odours and hues below. 

The shadows of the tomb are here. 

Yet beautiful is earth ! 
What seest thou then where no dim fear, 

No haunting dream hath birth"? 

Here a vain love to passing flowers 

Thou gav'st — but where thou art. 

The sway is not with changeful hours. 

There love and death must part. 

Thou hast left sorrow in thy song, 

A voice not loud, but deep ! 
The glorious bowers of earth among. 

How often didst thou weep ! 

Where couldst thou fix on mortal ground 
Thy tender thoughts and high 1 

Now peace the woman's heart hath found, 
And joy the poet's eye. 



NOTE-S. 

Note 1, page 201, col. 1. 
When darkness from the vainly-dotuig sight, 
Covers its beautiful ! 
" Wheresoever you are, or in what state soever 
you be, it sufiiceth me you are mine, Rachel 



wept, and would not be comforted, because her 
children were no more. And that, indeed, is the 
remediless sorrow, and none else !" — From a letter 
of Arabella Stuart's to her husband. — See Curio- 
sities of Literature 

Note 2, page 202, col. 2. 

Death !— what, is death a locked and treasured thing, 
Gruarded by swotds of fire ? 

"And if you remember of old, I dare die. 

Consider what the world would conceive, if I 
should be violently enforced to do it." — Fragments 
of her Letters. 

Note 3, page 204, col. 1. 

And her lovely thoughts from their cells found way, 
In the sudden flow of a plaintive lay. 

A Greek Bride, on leaving her father's house, 
takes leave of her friends and relatives frequently 
in extemporaneous verse. — See FaurieVs Chants 
Populaires de la Grece Modcrne. 

Note 4, page 209, col. 2. 
And loved when they should hate — like thee, Imelda. 
The tale of Imelda is related in Sismondi's His- 
toric des Republiques Italienne. Vol. iii. p. 443. 

Note 5, page 217, col. 1. 

Father of ancient waters, roll! 

"Father of waters," the Indian jiame for the 
Mississippi. 

Note G, page 218, col. 2. 

And to the Fairy's fountain in the glade. 

A beautiful fountain near Domremi, believed 
to be haunted by faries, and a favourite resort of 
Jeanne d'Arc in her childhood. ' 

Note 7, page 218, col. 2. 

But loveliest far amidst the revel's pride, 
Was she, the Lady from the Danube-side. 

The Princess Pauline Schwartzenberg. The 
story of her fate is beautifully related in L'Alle- 
magne. Vol. iii. p. 336. 



SONGS OP THE AFFECTIONS. 



227 



SonfifiJ of ttic Slfrection!5j, 



A SPIRIT'S RETURN. 



Tliis is to be a mortal, 
And seek the things beyond mortahty ! 

Manfred. 



Thy voice prevails; dear Friend, my gentle 

Friend ! 
This long-shut heart for thee shall be unsealed, 
And though thy soft eye mournfully will bend 
Over the troubled stream, yet once revealed 
Shall its freed waters flow; then rocks must close 
For evermore, above their dark repose. 

Come while the gorgeous mysteries of the sky 

Fused in the crimson sea of sunset lie ; 

Come to the woods, where all strange wandering 

sound 
Is mingled isito harmony profound ; 
Where the leaves thrill with spirit, while the wind 
Fills with a viewless being, unconfined. 
The trembling reeds and fountains; — Our own 

dell, 
With its green dimness and ^olian breath. 
Shall suit th' unveiling of dark records well — 
Hear me in tenderness and silent faith ! 

Thou knew'st me not in life's fresh vernal noon — 
I would thou hadst ! — for then my heart on thine 
.Had poured a worthier love; now, all o'crworn 
By its deep thirst for something too divine, 
It hath but fitful music to bestow. 
Echoes of harp-strings, broken long ago. 

Yet even in youth companionless I stood. 
As alone forest-bird mid.st ocean's foam; 
For me the silver chords of brotherhood 
Were early loosed ; — the voices from my home 
Passed one by one, and Melody and Mirth 
Left me a dreamer by a silent hearth. 

But, with the fulness of a heart that burned 
For the deep sympathies of mind, I turned 
From that unanswering spot, and fondly sought 
In all wild scenes with thrilling murmurs fraught, 
In every still small voice and sound of power. 
And flute-note of the wind through cave and 

bower, 
A perilous delight! — for then first woke 
My life's lone passion, the mysterious quest 



Of secret knowledge; and each tone that broke 
From the wood-arches or the fountain's breast, 
Making my quick soul vibrate as a lyre, 
But ministered to that strange inborn fire. 

Midst the bright silence of the mountain-dells, 

In noon-tide hours or golden summer-eves. 

My thoughts have burst forth as a gale that swells 

Into a rushing blast, and from the leaves 

Shakes out response; — O tliou rich world un- 

.seen ! 
Thou curtained realm of spirits! — thus my cry 
Hath troubled air and silence— dost thou lie 
Spread all around, yet by some filmy screen 
Shut from us ever? — The resounding woods, 
Do their depths teem with marvels? — and the 

floods. 
And the pure Luntains, leading secret veins 
Of quenchless melody through rock and hill, 
Have they bright dwellers'? — are their lone do- 
mains 
Peopled with beauty, whiclx may never still 
Our weary thirst of soull — Cold, weak and cold, 
Is Earth's vain language, piercing not one fold 
Of our deep being !— Oh, for gifts more high ! 
For a soer's glance to rend mortality! 
For a charmed rod, to call from each dark shrine, 
The oracles divine! 

I woke from those high fantasies, to know 
My kindred with the Earth — I woke to love: — 
O gentle Friend ! to love in doubt and wo. 
Shutting the heart the worshipped name above^ 
Is to love deeply — and my spirit's dower 
Was a sad gift, a melancholy power 
Of so adoring ; — with a buried care. 
And witii the o'erflovving of a voiceless prayer. 
And with a deepening dream, that day by day, 
In the still shadow of its lonely sway, 
Folded me closer; — till the world held nought 
Save the one Being to my centred thought. 
There was no music but his voice to hear. 
No joy but'such as with his step drew near ; 
Light was but where he looked — life where he 

moved — 
Silently, fervently, thus, thus I loved. 
Oh ! but such love is fearful! — and I knew 
Its gathering doom: — the soul's prophetic sight 
Even then unfolded in my breast, and threw 
O'er all things round, a full, strong, vivid light, 



228 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



Too sorrowfully clear! — an under-tone 
Was given to Nature's harp, for me alone 
Whispering of grief — Of grief? — be strong, 

awake ! 
Hath not thy love been victory, 0, my soul 1 
Hath not its conflict won a voice to shake 
Death's fastnesses! — a magic to control 
Worlds far removed'? — from o'er the grave to thee 
Love hath made answer ; and thy tale should be 
Sung like a lay of triumph! — Now return. 
And take thy treasure from its bosomed urn, 
And lift it once to light ! 

In fear, in pain 
I said I loved — but yet a heavenly strain 
Of sweetness floated down the tearful stream, 
A joy flashed through the trouble of my dream ! 
I knew myself beloved ! — we breathed no vow, 
No mingling visions might our fate allow, 
As unto happy hearts; but still and deep, 
Like a rich jewel gleaming in a grave. 
Like golden sand in some dark river's wave. 
So did my soul that costly knowledge keep 
So jealously! — a thing o'er which to shed. 
When stars alone beheld the drooping head, 
Lone tears ! yet ofltimes burdened with th' excess 
Of our strange nature's quivering happiness. 

But, oh ! sweet Friend ! we dream not of love's 

might 
Till Death has robed with soft and solemn light 
The image we enshrine ! — Before that hour. 
We have but glimpses of the o'ermastering power 
Within us laid ! — then doth the spirit-flame 
With sword-like lightning rend its mortal frame ; 
The wings of that- which pants to follow fast 
Shake their clay-bars, as with a prisoned blast, — 
The sea is in our souls 1 

He died, he died, 
On whom my lone devotedness was cast! 
I might not keep one vigil by his side, 
I, whose wrung heart watched with him to the last! 
I might not once his fainting head sustain. 
Nor bathe his parched lips in the hour of pain, 
Nor say to him, "Farewell !" — He passed away — 
Oh! had my love been there, its conquering sway 
Had won him back from death ! — but thus removed, 
Borne o'er the abyss no sounding line hath proved, 
Joined with the unknown, the viewless, — he be- 
came 
Unto my thoughts another, yet the same — 
Changed — hallowed — glorified ! — and in his low 

grave 
Seemed a bright mournful altar^ — mine, all mine: — 
Brother and Friend soon lefl; me that sole shrine. 
The birthright of the Faithful ! — i/ieiV world's wave 
Soon swept them from its brink. — Oh ! deem thou 

not 
That on the sad and consecrated spot 



My soul grew weak ! — I tell tliee that a power 
There kindled heart and lip ; — a fiery shower 
My words were made ; — a might was given to 

prayer. 
And a strong grasp to passionate despair, 
And a dread' triumph ! — Know'st thou what I 

sought 1 
For what high boon my struggling spirit wrought 1 
— Communion with the dead ! — I sent a cry, 
Through the veiled empires of eternity, 
A voice to cleave them ! By the mournful truth, 
By the lost promise of my blighted youth. 
By the strong chain a mightly love can bind 
On the beloved, the spell of mind o'er mind ; 
By words, which in themselves are magic high. 
Armed, and inspired, and winged with agony; 
By tears, which comfort not, but burn, and seem 
To bear the heart's blood in their passion-stream ; 
I summoned, I adjured ! — with quickened sense, 
With the keen vigil of a life intense, 
I watched, an answer frona the winds to wring, 
I listened, if perchance tlie stream might bring 
Token from worlds afar : I taught one sound 
Unto a thousand echoes ; one profound 
Imploring accent to the tomb, the sky; 
One prayer to night, — "Awake, appear, reply!" 

Hath thou been told that from the viewless bourne, 
The dark way never hath allowed return 1 
That all, which tears can move, with life is fled, 
That earthly love is powerless on the deadl 
Believe it not ! — there is a large lone star. 
Now burning o'er yon western hill afar, 
And under its clear light there lies a spot. 
Which well might utter forth — Believe it not ! 

I sat beneath that planet, — I had wept 
My wo to stillness ! every night-wind slept ; 
A hush was on the hills ; the very streams 
Went by like clouds, or noiseless founts in dreams, 
And the dark tree o'ershadowing me that hour. 
Stood motionless, even as the gray church tower 
Whereon I gazed unconsciously : — there came 
A low sound, like the tremor of a flame, 
Or like the light quick shiver of a wing, 
Flitting through twilight woods, across the air; 
And I looked up ! — Oh ! for strong words to bring 
Conviction o'er thy thought ! — Before me there, 
He, the Departed, stood ! — Aye, face to face — 
So near, and yet how far ! — his form, his mien, 
Gave to remembrance back each burning trace 
Within : — Yet something awfully serene, 
Pure, — sculpture-like, — on the pale brow, that 

wore 
Of the once beating heart no token more ; 
And stillness on the lip — and o'er the hair 
A gleam, that trembled through the breathless air; 
And an unfathomed calm, that seemed to lie 
In the grave sweetness of the illumined eye; 



SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 



229 



Told of the gulfs between our being set, 
And, as that unsheathed spirit-glance I met, 
Made my soul faint : — with /tor? — Oh! not with 

fear! 
With the sick feeling that in his far sphere 
My love could be as nothing ! — But he spoke — 
How shall I tell thee of the startling thrill 
In that low voice, whose breezy tones could fill 
My bosom's infinite? — O Friend, I woke 
Then first to heavenly life ! — Soft, solemn, clear, 
Breathed the mysterious accents on mine ear, 
Yet strangely seemed as if the while they rose 
From depths of distance, o'er the wide repose 
Of slumbering waters wafted, or the dells 
Of mountains, hollow with sweet echo-cells ; 
But, as they murmured on, the mortal chill 
Passed from me, like a mist before the morn. 
And, to that glorious intercourse upborne. 
By slow degrees, a calm, divinely still. 
Possessed my frame : I sought that lighted eye,— 
From its intense and searching purity 
I drank in soul! — I questioned of the dead — 
Of the hushed, starry shores their footsteps tread — 
And I was answered : — if remembrance there, 
With dreamy whispers fill the immortal air ; 
If Thought, here piled from many a jewel-heap, 
Be treasure i'' that pensive land to keep ; 
If Love, o'ersweeping change, and blight, and blast, 
Find there the music of his home at last ; 
I asked, and I was answered : — Full and hiirh 
Was that communion with eternity, 
Too rich for aught so fleeting ! — Like a knell 
Swept o'er my sense its closing words, — " Fare- 
well, 
On earth we meet no more !" — and all was gone — 
The pale bright settled brow — the thrilling tone — 
The still and shining eye ! — and never more 
May twilight gloom or midnight hush restore 
That radiant guest! — One full-fraught hour of 

Heaven, 
To earthly passion's wild implorings given. 
Was made my own — the ethereal fire hath shivered 
The fragile censer in whose mould it quivered, 
Brightly, consumingly! — What now is left? — 
A faded world, of glory's hues bereft, 
A void, a chain ! — I dwell, 'midst throngs, apart, 
In the cold silence of tiie stranger's heart ; 
A fixed, immortal shadow stands between 
My spirit and life's fast receding scene ; 
A gift hath severed me from human ties, 
A power is gone from all earth's melodies. 
Which never may return : — their chords are bro- 
ken — 
The music of another land hath spoken. 
No after-sound is sweet ! — this weary thirst! — 
And I have heard celestial fountains burst ! — 
What here shall quench it 1 

Dost thou not rejoice. 
When the spring sends forth an awakening voice | 



Through the young woods 1 — Thou dost ! — And 

in that birth 
Of early leaves, and flowers, and songs of mirth, 
Thousands, like thee, find gladness! — Couldstthou 

know 
How every breeze then summons me to go ! 
How all the light of love and beauty shed 
By those rich hours, but wooes me to the Dead I 
The only beautiful that change no more, 
The only loved ! — the dwellers on the shore 
Of spring fulfilled ! — The Dead ! — whom call we sol 
They that breathe purer air, that feel, that know 
Things wrapt from us ! — Away ! — within me pent, 
That which is barred from its own element 
Still droops or struggles! — But the day will come — 
Over the deep the free bird finds its home. 
And the stream lingers 'midst the rocks, yet greets 
The sea at last; and the winged flower-seed meets 
A soil to rest in : — shall not /, too, be. 
My spirit-love ! upborne to dwell with thee? 
Yes! by the power whose conquering anguish 

stirred 
The tomb, whose cry beyond the stars was heard. 
Whose agony of triumph won thee back 
Through the dim pass no mortal step may track, 
Yet shall we meet! — that glimpse of joy divine, 
Proved thee for ever and for ever mine ! 



THE LADY OF PROVENCE.* 



Courage was cast about her like a di'ess 

Of solemn comeliness, 
A gathered mind and an untroubled face 

Did give her dangers grace. 

Donne. 



The war-note of the Saracen 

Was on the winds of France; 
It had stilled the harp of the Troubadour, 

And the clash of the tourney's lance. 

The sounds of the sea, and the sounds of the night, 
And the hollow echoes of charge and flight. 
Were around Clotilde, as she knelt to pray 
In a chapel where the mighty lay. 

On the old Provencal shore; 
Many a Chatillon beneath. 
Unstirred by the ringing trumj)et's breath, 

His shroud of armour wore. 
And the glimpses of moonlight that went and 

came 

Through the clouds, like bursts of a dying flame, 
Gave quivering life to the slumber pale 
Of stern forms couched in their marble mail, 
At rest on the tombs of the knightly race. 
The silent throngs of that burial-place. 



* Founded on an incident in the early French history. 



230 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



They were imaged there with hehn and spear, 
As leaders in many a bold career, 
And haughty their stillness looked and high, 
Like a sleep whose dreams were of victory; 
But meekly the voice of the lady rose 
Through the trophies of their proud repose ; 
Meekly, yet fervently, calhng down aid, 
Under their banners of battle she prayed; 
With her pale fair brow, and her eyes of love, 
Upraised to the Virgin's pourtrayed above, 
And her hair flung back, till it swept the grave 
Of a Chatillon with its gleamy wave. 
And her fragile frame, at every blast, 
That full of the savage war-horn passed, 
Trembling, as trembles a bird's quick heart, 
When it vainly strives from its cage to part, — 

So knelt she in her wo; 
A weeper alone with the tearless dead — 
Oh ! they reck not of tears o'er their quiet shed. 

Or the dust had stirred below ! 

Hark! a swift step! she hath caught its tone, 
Through the dash of the sea, through the wild 

wind's moan ; — 
Is her lord returned with his conquering bands? 
No! a breathless vassal before her stands! 
— " Hast thou been on the field 7 — Art thou come 

from the host '?" 
— "From the slaughter. Lady! — All, all is lost! 
Our banners are taken, our knights laid low, 
Our spearmen chased by the Paynim foe, 
And thy Lord," his voice took a sadder sound — 
" Tliy Lord — he is not on the bloody ground ! 
There are those who tell that the leader's plume 
Was seen on the flight through the gathering 

gloom." 

— A change o'er her mien and spirit past ; 

She ruled the heart which had beat so fast. 

She dashed the tears from her kindling eye, 

With a glance, as of sudden royalty: 

The proud blood sprang in a fiery flow, 

Q,uick o'er bosom, and cheek, and brow. 

And her young voice rose till the peasant shook 

At the tlirilling tone and the falcon-look: 

— " Dost thou stand by the tombs of the glorious 

dead, 
And fear not to say, that their son hath fled ? 
— Away ! he is lying by lance and shield, — 
Point me the path to his battle-field !" 

The shadows of the forest 

Are about the lady now; 
She is hurrying through the midnight on. 

Beneath the dark pine bough. 

There's a hiurmur of omens in every leaf. 
There's a wail in the stream like the dirge of a 
chief; 



The branches that rock the tempest-strife, 
Are groaning like things of troubled life ; 
The wind from the battle seems rushing by 
With a funeral march through the gloomy sky ; 
The pathway is rugged, and wild, and long. 
But her frame in tlie daring of love is strong, 
And her soul as on swelling seas upborne. 
And girded all fearful things to scorn. 

And fearful things were around her spread, 
When she reached the field of the warrior-dead ; 
There lay the noble, the valiant, low — 
Aye ! but one word speaks of deeper wo ; 
There lay the loved — on each fallen head 
Mothers vain blessings and tears had shed ; 
Sisters were watching in many a home 
For the fettered footstep, no more to come ; 
Names in the prayer of that night were spoken. 
Whose claim unto kindred prayer was broken; 
And the fire was heaped, and the bright wine 

poured. 
For those, now needing nor hearth nor board ; 
Only a requiem, a shroud, a knell, 
And oh ! ye beloved of women, farewell ! 

Silently, with lips compressed. 

Pale hands clasped above her breast. 

Stately brow of anguish high, * . 

Deathlike check, but dauntless eye ; 

Silently, o'er that' red plain, 

Moved the lady 'midst the slain. 

Sometimes it seemed as a charging cry, 
Or the ringing tramp of a steed, came nigh ; 
Sometimes a blast of the Paynim horn, 
Sudden and shrill from the mountains borne; 
And her maidens trembled ; — but on her ear 
No meaning fell with those sounds of fear: 
They had less of mastery to shake her now. 
Than the quivering, erewhile, of an aspen bough. 
She searched into many an unclosed eye, 
That looked, without soul, to the starry sky; 
She bowed down o'er many a shattered breast. 
She lifted up helmet and clo\en crest — 

Not there, not there he lay ! 
" Lead where the most hath been dared and done. 
Where the heart of the battle hath bled — lead on !" 

And the vassal took the way. 

He turned to a dark and lonely tree. 

That waved o'er a fountain red ; 
Oh! swiftest there had the currents free 

From noble veins been shed. 

Thickest there the spear-heads gleamed, 
And the scattered plumage streamed, 
And the broken shields were tossed. 
And the shivered lances crossed, 
And the mail-clad sleepers round 
Made the harvest of that ftround. 



SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 



231 



He was there ! the leader amidst his band, 
Where the faithful had made their last vain stand, 
He was there ! but aflection's glance alone 
The darkly-changed in that hour had known ; 
With the falchion yet in his cold hand grasped, 
And a banner of France to his bosom clasped. 
And the form that of conflict bore fearful trace. 
And the face— oh ! speak not of that dead face ! 
As it lay to answer love's look no more, 
Yet never so proudly loved before ! 
She quelled in her soul the deep floods of wo, 
The time was not yet for their waves to flow ; 
She felt the full presence, the might of death. 
Yet there came no sob with her struggling breath, 
And a proud smile shone o'er her pale despair, 
As she tu rned to his followers — ' 'Your Lord is tliere ! 
Look on him ! know him by scarf and crest ! — 
Bear him away with his sires to rest !" 

Another day — another iiiglit — 

And the sailor on the dee|) 
Hears the low chant of a funeral rite 

From the lordly chapel sweep: 

It comes with a broken and muffled tone, 

As if that rite were in terror done ; 

Yet the song 'midst the seas hath a thrilling i)ovvor. 

And he knows 'tis a chieftain's burial hour. 

Hurriedly, in fear and wo, 

Through the aisle the mourners go ; 

With a hushed and stealthy tread, 

Bearing on the noble dead, 

Sheathed in armour of the field — 

Only his wan face revealed. 

Whence the still and solemn gleam 

Doth a strange sad contrast seem 

To the anxious eyes of that pale band, 

With torches wavering in every hand. 

For they dread each moment the shout of war. 

And the burst of the Moslem scimitar. 

There is no plumed head o'er the bier to bend, 

No brother of battle, no princely friend ; 

No sound comes back like the sounds of yore. 

Unto sweeping swords from the marble floor ; 

By the red fountain the valiant lie. 

The flower of Provenral chivalry, 

But one free step, and one lolly heart, 

Bear through that scene, to the last, their part. 

She hath led the death-train of the brave 

To the verge of his own ancestral grave ; 

She hath held o'er her spirit long rigid sway, 

But the struggling passion must now have way. 

In the cheek, half seen through her mourning veil, 

By turns does the swift blood flush and fail ; 

The pride on the lip is lingering still. 

But it shakes as a flame to the blast might thrill ; 

Anguish and Triumph arc met at strife, 

Rending the chords of her frail young life ; 



And she sinks at last on her warrior's bier, 
Lifting her voice, as if Death might hear. — 

" I have won thy fame from the breath of wrong, 
My soul hath risen for thy glory strong ! 
Now call me hence, by thy side to be, 
The world thou leav'st has no place for me. 
The light goes with thee, the joy, the worth — 
Faithful and tender ! Oh ! call me forth ! 
Give me my home on thy noble heart, — 
Well have we loved, let us both depart !" — 
And pale on the breast of the Dead she lay, 
The living cheek to the cheek of clay ; 
The living cheek ! — Oh ! it wa. not vain. 
That strife of the spirit to rend its chain ; 
She is there at rest in her place of pride, 
In death how queen-like — a glorious bride ! 

.Toy for the freed One ! — she might not stay 

When the crown had fallen I'rom her life away; 

She might not linger — a weary thing, 

A dove, with no home for its broken wing. 

Thrown on the harshness of alien skies. 

That know not its own land's melodies. 

From the long heart-withering early gone ; 

She hath lived — she hath loved — her task is done! 



THE CORONATION OF INEZ DE 
CASTRO. 



Tableau, ou 1' Amour fait alliance avec la Tombe; ujiion 
rcdoutable de la mort et de la vie I 

Madams de Slnel. 



TiiERF, was music on the midnight; — 

From a royal fane it rolled. 
And a mighty bell, each pause between. 

Sternly and slowly tolled. 
Strange was their mingling in the sky. 

It hushed the listener's breath ; 
For the music spoke of triumph high, 

The lonely bell, of death. 

There was hurrying through the midnight — 

A sound of many feet ; 
But they fell with a mufllcd fearfulness. 

Along the shadowy street : 
And softer, fainter, grew their tread, 

As it ncared the minster-gate. 
Whence a broad and solemn light was shed 

From a scene of royal state. 

Full glowed the strong red radiance. 

In the centre of the nave. 
Where the folds of a purple canopy 

Swept down in many a wavcj 



232 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



Loading the marble pavement old 

With a weight of gorgeous gloom, 
For something lay 'midst their fretted gold. 

Like a shadow of the tomb. 

And within that rich pavilion, 

High on a glittering throne, 
A woman's form sat silently, 

'Midst the glare of light alone. 
Her jewelled robes fell strangely still — 

The drapery on her breast 
Seemed with no pulse beneath to thrill, 

So stonelike was its rest ! 

But a peal of lordly music 

Shook e'en the dust below, 
When the burning gold of the diadem 

Was set on her pallid brow ! 
Then died away that haughty sound. 

And from the encircling band 
Slept Prince and Chief, 'midst the hush profound, 

With homage to her hand. 

Why passed a faint, cold shuddering 

Over each martial frame, 
As one by one, to touch that hand, 

Noble and leader camel 
Was not the settled aspect fair 1 

Did not a queenly grace. 
Under the parted ebon hair, 

Sit on the pale still face 1 

Death ! Death ! canst thau, be lovely 

Unto the eye of Life? 
Is not each pulse of the quick high breast 

With thy cold mien at strife? 
— It was a strange and fearful sight, 

The crown upon that head. 
The glorious robes, and the blaze of light, 

All gathered round the Dead! 

And beside her stood in silence 

One with a brow as pale, 
And white lips rigidly compressed, 

Lest the strong heart should fail : 
King Pedro, with a jealous eye. 

Watching the homage done, 
By the land's flower and chivalry, 

To her, his niartyred one. 

But on the face he looked not. 

Which once his star had been; 
To every form his glance was turned, 

Save of the breathless queen : 
Though something, won from the grave's embrace. 

Of her beauty still was there, 
Its hues were all of that shadowy place. 

It was not for him to bear. 



Alas ! the crown, the sceptre, 

The treasures of the earth, 
And the priceless love that poured those gifts, 

Alike of wasted worth ! 
The rites are closed : — bear back the Dead 

Unto the chamber deep! 
Lay down again the royal head, 

Dust with the dust to sleep ! 

There is music on the midnight — 

A requiem sad and slow, 
As the mourners through the sounding ajsle 

In dark procession go; 
And the ring of state, and the starry crown, 

And all the rich array, 
Are borne to the house of silence down. 

With her, that queen of clay ! 

And fearlessly and firmly 

King Pedro led the train, — 
But his face was wrapt in his folding robe, 

When they lowered the dust again. 
'T is hushed at last the tomb above. 

Hymns die, and steps depart: 
Who called thee strong as Death, O Love ? 

Mightier thou wast and art. 



ITALIAN GIRL'S HYMN TO THE 
VIRGIN. 



O sanctissima, o purissima ! 

Dulcis Virgo Maria, 
Mater araata, intemerata, 

Ora, ora pro nobis. 

' Sicilian Marine.r''s Hymn. 



In the deep hour of dreams, 
Through the dark woods and past the moaning 
sea. 

And by the star-light gleams, 
Mother of Sorrows ! lo, I come to thee. 

Unto thy shrine I bear 
Night-blowing flowers, like my own heart, to lie 

All, all unfolded there, 
Beneath the meekness of thy pitying eye. 

For thou, that once didst move, 
In thy still beauty, through an early home, 

Thou know'st the grief, the love. 
The fear of woman's soul ; — to thee I come ! 

Many, and sad, and deep, 
Were the thoughts folded in thy silent breast ; 

Thou, too, couldst watch and weep — 
Hear, gentlest mother ! hear a heart opprest ! 



SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 



233 



There is a wandering bark 
Bearing one from me o'er the restless waves; 

Oh! let thy soft eye mark 
His course; — Be with him, Holiest, guide and 
save I 

My soul is on that way; 
My thoughts are travellers o'er the waters dim 

Through the long weary day, 
I walk, o'ershadowed by vain dreams of him. 

Aid him, — and me, too, aid! 
Oh! 'tis not well, this earthly love's excess! 

On thy weak child is laid 
The burden of too deep a tenderness. 

Too much o'er him is poured 
My being's hope — scarce leaving Heaven a part ; 

Too fearfully adored, 
Oh ! make not him the chastener of my heart ! 

I tremble with a sense 
Of grief to be; — I hear a warning low — 

Sweet mother ! call me hence ! 
This wild idolatry must end in wo. 

The troubled joy of life. 
Love's lightning happiness, my soul hath known; 

And, worn with feverish strife. 
Would fold its wings; — take back, take back 
thine own ! 

Hark ! how the wind swept by ! 
The tempest's voice comes rolling o'er the wave — 

Hope of the sailor's eye. 
And maiden's heart, blest mother, guide and save ! 



TO A DEPARTED SPIRIT. 

From the bright stars, or from the viewless air, 
Or from some world unreached by human thought. 
Spirit, sweet spirit ! if thy home be there. 
And if thy visions with the past be fraught, 

Answer me, answer me ! 

Have we not communed here of life and death 1 
Have we not said that love, such love as ours, 
Was not to perish as a rose's breath. 
To melt away, like song from festal bowers 1 

Answer, oh ! answer me ! 

Thine eye's last light was mine — the soul that 

shone 
Intensely, mournfully, through gathering haze — 
Didst thou bear with thee to the shore unknown, 
Nought of what lived in that long, earnest gaze 1 
Hear, hear, and answer me ! 

Thy voice — its low, soft, fervent, farewell tone 
Thrilled through the tempest of the parting strife, 



Like a faint breeze : — oh ! from that music flown, 
Send back one sound, if love's be quenchless life. 
But once, oh ! answer me ! 

In the still noontide, in the sunset's hush. 

In the dead hour of night, when thought grows 

deep, 
When the heart's phantoms from the darkness 

rush. 
Fearfully beautiful, to strive with sleep — 

Spirit ! then answer me ! 

By the remembrance of our blended prayer ; 
By all our tears, whose mingling made them sweet ; 
By our last hope, the victor o'er despair ; — 
Speak! if our souls in deathless yearnings meet; 
Answer me, answer me 1 

The grave is silent: — and the far-off sky. 
And the deep midnight — silent all, and lone I 
Oh ! if thy buried love make no reply, 
What voice has Earth 1 — Hear, pity, speak, mine 
own! 

Answer me, answer me ! 



THE CHAMOIS HUNTER'S LOVE. 



For all Ills wildness and proud fantasies, 
I love liim! 

Croli/. 

Tny heart is in the upper world, where fleet the 

Chamois bounds. 
Thy heart is where the mountain-fir shakes to the 

torrent-sounds ; 
And where the snow-peaks gleam like stars, 

through the stillness of the air. 
And where the Lauwine's* peal is heard — Hunter! 

thy heart is there ! 

I know thou lov'st me well, dear Friend ! but bet- 
ter, better far, 

Thou lov'st that high and haughty hfc, with rocks 
and storms at war ; 

In the green sunny vales with me, thy spirit would 
but pine — 

And yet I will be thine, my Love 1 and yet I will 
be thine ! 

And I will not seek- to woo thee down from those 
thy native heights. 

With the sweet song, our land's own song, of pas- 
toral delights ; 



' Lauwinc, the avalanche. 



234 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



For thou must live as eagles live, thy path is not 

as mine — 
And yet I will be thine, my Love ! and yet I will 

be thine. 

And I will leave my blessed home, my Father's 

joyous hearth, 
"With all the voices meeting there in tenderness 

and mirth, 
With all the kind and laughing eyes, that in its 

fire-light shine. 
To sit forsaken in thy hut, — yet know that thou 

art mine ! 

It is my youth, it is my bloom, it is my glad free 
heart, 

That I cast away for thee — for thee — all reckless 
as thou art ! 

With tremblings and with vigils lone, I bind my- 
self to dwell 

Yet, yet I would not change that lot, — oh no ! I 
love too well ! 

A mournful thing is love which grows to one so 

wild as thou. 
With that briglit restlessness of eye, that tameless 

fire of brow ! 
Mournful ! — but dearer far I call its mingled fear 

and pride, 
And the trouble of its happiness, than aught on 

earth beside. 

To listen for thy step in vain, to start at every 

breath. 
To watch through long long nights of storm, to 

sleep and dream of death, 
To wake in doubt and loneliness — this doom I 

know is mine, — 
And yet I will be thine, my Love ! and yet I will 

be thine ! 

That I may greet thee from thine Alps, when 

thence thou com'st at last, 
That I may hear thy thrilling voice tell o'er each 

danger past, 
That I may kneel and pray for thee, and win 

thee aid divine, — 
For this I will be thine, my Love ! for this I will 

be thine ! 



THE INDIAN WITH HIS DEAD 
CHILD.* 

In the silence of the midnight 
I journey with my dead ; 



■ An Indian who had estahlished hhnself in a township of 
Maine, feeling indignantly the want of sympathy evinced 
towards him by the white inhabitant, particularly on the 
death of his only child, gave up his farm soon afterwards, dug 
up the body of his child, and carried it with hint two hundred 



In the darkness of the forest -boughs, 
A lonely path I tread. 

But my heart is high and fearless. 
As by mighty wings upborne; 

The mountain eagle hath not plumes 
So strong as Love and Scorn. 

I have raised thee from the grave-sod, 
By the white man's path defiled ; 

On to th' ancestral wilderness, 
I bear thy dust, my child ! 

I have asked the ancient deserts 

To give my dead a place. 
Where the stately footsteps of the free 

Alone should leave a trace. 

And the tossing pines made answer — 
" Go, bring us back thine own !" 

And the streams from all the hunters' hills, 
Rushed with an echoing tone. 

Thou shalt rest by sounding waters 

That yet untamed may roll ; 
The voices of that chainless host 

With joy shall fill thy soul. 

In the silence of the midnight 

I journey with the dead, 
Where the arrows of my father's bow 

Their falcon flight have sped. 

I have left the spoiler's dwellings. 

For evermore, behind; 
Unmingled with their household sounds, 

For me shall sweep the wind. 

Alone, amidst their hearth-fires, 

I watched my child's decay, 
Uncheered, I saw the spirit-light 

From his young eyes fade away. 

When his head sank on my bosom; 

When the death-sleep o'er him fell, 
Was there one to saj', " A friend is near?" 

There was none! — pale race, farewell! 

To the forests, to the cedars. 

To the warrior and his bow. 
Back, back ! — I bore thee laughing thence, 

I bear thee slumbering now I 

I bear thee unto burial 

With the mighty hunters gone ; 
I shall hear thee in the forest-breeze, 

Thou wilt speak of joy, my son! 

In the silence of the midnight 

I journey with the dead; 
But my heart is strong, my step is fleet. 

My father's path I tread. 



miles through the forests to join the Canadian bidians. — See 
Tudor's Letters on Ike Eastern States of America. 



SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS, 



235 



SONG OF EMIGRATION. 

There was heard a song on the chiming sea, 

A mingled breathing of grief and glee ; 

Man's voice, unbroken by sighs was there, 

Filling with triumph the sunny air ; 

Of fresh green lands, and of pastures new, 

It sang, while the bark through the surges flew. 

But ever and anon 

A murmur of farewell 
Told, by its plaintive tone, 

That from woman's lip it fell. 

"Away, away o'er the foaming main !" 

— This was the free and the joyous strain— 

" There are clearer skies than ours, afar, 

We will shape our course by a brighter star ; 

There are plains whose verd ure no foot hath pressed , 

And whose wealth is all for the first brave guest." 

" But alas ! that we should go" 
— Sang the farewell voices then — 
' " From the homesteads, warm and low. 
By the brook and in the glen !" 

" We will rear new homes under trees that glow, 
As if gems were the fruitage of every bough ; 
O'er our white walls we will train the vine. 
And sit in its shadow at day's decline ; 
And watch our herds, as they range at will 
Through the green savannas, all bright and still." 

" But wo for that sweet shade 
Of the flowering orchard-trees. 

Where first our children played 
'Midst the birds and honey bees !" 

" All, all our own shall the forests be, 

As to the bound of the roebuck free ! 

None shall say, ' Hither, no further pass !' 

We will track each step through the wavy grass ; 

We will chase the elk in his speed and might, 

And bring proud spoils to the hearth at night." 

" But, oh ! the gray church-tower, 
And the sound of Sabbath-bell, 

And the sheltered garden-bower, — 
We have bid them all farewell 1" 

" We will give the names of our fearless race 
To each bright river whose course we trace ; 
We will leave our memory with mounts and floods, 
And the path of our daring in boundless woods! 
And our works unto many a lake's green shore. 
Where the Indian's graves lay, alone, before " 

" But who shall teach the flowers, 
Which our children loved, to dwell 

In a soil that is not ours ? 

— Home, home and friends, farewell !" 



THE KING OF ARRAGON'S LAMENT 
FOR HIS BROTHER.* 



If 1 could see him, ii were well wUh me. 

Coleridge's Wallenstein. 



There were lights and sounds of revelling in the 

vanquished city's halls. 
As by night the feast of victory was held within 

its walls ; 
And the conquerors filled the wine-cup high, after 

years of bright blood shed ; 
But their Lord, the King of Arragon, 'midst the 

triumph, wailed the dead. 

He looked down from the fortress won, on the 

tents and towers below, 
The moon-lit sea, the torch-lit streets, — and a 

gloom came o'er his brow : 
The voice of thousands floated up, with the horn 

and cymbal's tone ; 
But his heart, 'midst that proud music, felt more 

utterly alone. 

And he cried, " Thou art mine, fair city ! thou city 

of the sea ! 
But, oh ! what portion of delight is mine at last in 

thee? 
— I am lonely 'midst thy palaces, while the glad 

waves past them roll, 
And the soft breath of thine orange-bowers is 

mournful to my soul. 

" My brother ! oh ! my brother ! thou art gone, — 
the true and brave, 

And tlic haughty joy of victory hath died upon thy 
grave ; 

There are many round my throne to stand, and to 
march where I lead on ; 

There was one to love me in the world, — iny bro- 
ther ! thou art gone! 

" In the desert, in the battle, in the ocean tempest's 

wrath. 
We stood together, side by side; one hope was 

ours, — one path ; 
Thou hast wrapped me in thy soldier's cloak, thou 

hast fenced me with thy breast; 
Thou hast watched beside my couch of pain — oh ! 

bravest heart, and best ! 



* The grief of Fcrdinanil, King of Arragon, for the loss of 
his brother, Don Pedro, who -Kiis killed during the siege of 
Naples, i= uflectingly described liy the historian Mariana. It 
is also the subject of one of the old Spanish Ballads in Lock- 
hart's beautiful collection. 



236 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



" I see the festive lights around ; — o'er a dull sad 

world they shine ; 
I hear the voice of victory — my Pedro ! where is 

thine? 
The only voice in whose kind tone my spirit found 

reply ! — 
Oh ! brother ! I have bought too dear this hollow 

pageantry ! 

" I have hosts, and gallant fleets, to spread my glory 

and my sway, 
And chiefs to lead them fearlessly; — my friend 

hath passed away ! 
For the kindly look, the word of cheer, my heart 

may thirst in vain, 
And the face that was as light to mine — it can not 

come again ! 

" I have made thy blood, thy faithful blood, the of- 
fering for a crown ; 

With love, which earth bestows not twice, I have 
purchased cold renown ; 

How often will my weary heart 'midst the sounds 
of triumph die. 

When I think of thee, my brother ! thou flower of 
chivalry ! 

" I am lonely — I am lonely ! this rest is even as 
death ! 

Let me hear again the ringing spears, and the bat- 
tle-trumpet's breath; 

Let me see the fiery charger foam, and the royal 
banner wave — 

But where art thou, my brother 1 wherel — in thy 
low and early grave !" 

And louder swelled the songs of joy through that 

victorious night. 
And faster flowed the red wine forth, by the stars' 

and torches' light ; 
But low and deep, amidst the mirth, was heard the 

conqueror's moan — 
" My brother ! oh ! my brother ! best and bravest ! 

thou art gone!" 



THE RETURN. 

" Hast thou come with the heart of thy childhood 
back 1 

The free, the pure, the kind?" 
— So murmured the trees in my homeward track, 

As they played to the mountain- wind. 

" Hath thy soul been true to its early loveT' 

Whispered my native streams ; 
" Hath the spirit nursed amidst jiill and grove, 

Still revered its first high dreams V 



" Hast thou borne in thy bosom the holy prayer 

Of the child in his parent-halls?" 
— Thus breathed a voice on the thrilling air, 

From the old ancestral walls. 

" Hast thou kept thy faith with the faithful dead, 

Whose place of rest is nigh 1 
With the father's blessing o'er thee shed, 

With the mother's trusting eye 1" 

— Then my tears gushed forth in sudden rain, 

As I answered — " O, ye shades ! 
I bring not my childhood's heart again 

To the freedom of your glades. 

" I have turned from my first pure love aside, 

O bright and happy streams ! 
Light after light, in my soul have died 

The day-spring's glorious dreams. 

"And the holy prayer from my thoughts hath 
passed — 

The prayer at my mother's knee ; 
Darkened and troubled I come at last, 

Home of my boyish glee ! 

"But I bear from my childhood a gift of tears, 

To soften and atone ; 
And oh ! ye scenes of those blessed years 

They shall make me again your own." 



THE VAUDOIS' WIFE.* 



Clasp me a litlle longer, on the brink 
Of" late ! while I can feel the dear caress : 

And when this heart liath ceased to beat, oh ! think — 
And let it mitigate thy wo's excess — 
That thou to me hast been all tenderness, 

And friend, to more than human friendship just. 
Oh ! by that retrospect of happiness, 

And by the hopes of an immortal trust, 

God shall assuage thy pangs, when I am laid in dust. 

Gertrude oj Wyoming. 



Thy voice is in mine car, beloved ! 

Thy look is in my heart, 
Thy bosom is my resting-place. 

And yet I must depart. 
Earth on my soul is strong — too strong- 

Too precious is its chain. 
All woven of thy love, dear friend. 

Yet vain — though mighty — vaiir ! 



' The wife of a Vaudois leader, in one of the attacks made 
on the Protestant hamlets, received a mnrlal wound, and died 
in her husband's arms, exliorting hijn to courage and endur- 
ance. 



SONGS OP THE AFFECTIONS. 



237 



Thou see'st mine eye grow dim, beloved ! 

Thou see'st my life-blood flow. — 
Bow to the chastener silently, 

And calmly let nie go ! 
A little while between our hearts 

The shadowy gulf rtiust lie, 
Yet have we for their communing 

Still, still Eternity ! 

Alas ! thy tears are on my cheek, 

My spirit they detain ; 
I know that from thine agony 

Is wrung that burning rain. 
Best, kindest, weep not; — make the pang, 

The bitter conflict, less — 
Oh! sad it is, and yet a joy. 

To feel thy love's excess ! 

But calm thee ! Let the thought of death 

A solemn peace restore ! 
The voice that must be silent soon. 

Would speak to thee once more, 
That thou may.st bear its blessing on 

Through years of after life — 
A token of consoling love, 

Even from this hour of strife. 

I bless thee for the noble heart. 

The tender, and the true, 
Where mine hath found the happiest rest 

That e'er fond woman's knew; 
I bless thee, faithful friend and guide, 

For my own, my treasured share, 
In the mournful secrets of thy soul, 

In thy sorrow, in thy prayer. 

I bless thee for kind looks and words 

Showered on my path like dew, 
For all the love in those deep eyes, 
^ A gladness ever new! 
'For the voice which ne'er to mine replied 
But in kindly tones of cheer; 
For every spring of happiness 
My soul hath tasted here ! 

I bless thee for the last rich boon 

Won from affection tried. 
The right to gaze on death with thee. 

To perish by thy side ! 
And yet more for the glorious hope 

Even to these moments given — 
Did not thy spirit ever lift; 

The trust of mine to Heaven? 

Now be thou strong ! Oh ! knew we not 

Our path must lead to this? 
A shadow and a trembling still 

Were mingled with our bliss ! 
We plighted our young hearts when storms 

Were dark upon the sky, 
•25 



In full, deep knowledge of their task 
To suft'er and to die ! 

Be strong! I leave the living voice 

Of this, my martyred blood. 
With the thousand echoes of the hills, 

With tiie torrent's foaming flood, — 
A spirit midst the caves to dwell, 

A token on the air. 
To rouse the valiant from repose, 

The fainting from despair. 

Hear it, and bear thou on, my love! 

Aye, joyously endure ! 
Our mountains must be altars yet, 

Inviolate and pure ; 
There must our God be worshipped still 

With the worship of the free — 
Farewell I — there's but orte pang in death, 

One only, — leaving thee ! 



THE GUERILLA LEADER'S VOW. 



Did you say all 7 



All my pretty ones! 



I.et us make medicine of this great revenge, 
To cure thi.s deadly grief! 

Macbeth. 



My battle-vow ! — no min.ster walls 

Gave back the burning word. 
Nor cross nor shrine the low deep tone 

Of smothered vengeance heard: 
But the ashes of a ruined home 

Thrilled as it sternly rose. 
With the mingling voice of blood that ehook 

The midnight's dark repose. 

I breathed it not o'er kingly tombs, 

But where my children lay. 
And the startled vulture at my step, 

Soared from their precious clay. 
I stood amidst my dead alone — 

I kissed their lips — I poured, 
In the strong silence of that hour, 

My spirit on my sword. 

The roof-tree fall'n, the smouldering floor. 

The blackened threshold-stone. 
The bright hair torn, and soiled with blood, 

Whose fountain was my own ; 
These, and the everlasting hills. 

Bore witness that wild night; 
Before them rose th' avenger's soul, 

In cru.shed affection's might. 

The stars, the searching stars of heaven, 
With keen looks would upbraid, 



238 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



If from my heart the fiery vow, 

Seared on it then, could fade. 
They have no cause! — Go, ask the streams 

That by my paths have swept, 
The red wav^s that unstained were born — 

How hath my faith been keptl 

And other eyes arc on my soul, 

That never, never close. 
The sad, sweet glances of the lost — 

They leave me no repose. 
Haunting my night-watch 'midst the rocks, 

And by the toi'rent's foam, 
Through the dark-rolling mists they shine, 

Full, full of love and home! 

Alas! the mountain eagle's heart, 

When wronged, may yet find rest; 
Scorning the place made desolate, 

He seeks another nest. 
But I — your soft looks wake the thirst 

That wins no quenching rain ; 
Ye drive me back, my beautiful! 

To the stormy fight again! 



THEKLA AT HER LOVER'S GRAVE.* 



Thither where he lies burie(JI 
That single spot is the whole world to me. 

Coleridge's WcUlcn^tcin. 



Thy voice was in my soul ! it called me on ; 

O my lost friend ! thy voice was in my soul : 
From the cold faded world, whence thou art gone, 

To hear no more life's troubled billows roll, 
I come, I come! 

Now speak to me again ! we loved so well — 

We loved ! oh! still, I know that still we love! 
I have left all things with thy dust to dwell. 
Through these dim aisles in dreams of thee to 
rove: 

This is my home! 

Spealt to me in the thrilling minster's gloom ! 

Speak! thou hast died, and sent me no farewell! 
I will not shrink; — oh! mighty is the tomb, 

But one thing mighter, which it can not quell. 
This woman's heart ! 

This lone, full, fragile heart ! — the strong alone 
In love and grief— of both the burning shrine! 
Thou, my soul's friend! with grief hast surely 
done, 
But with the love which made thy spirit mine. 
Say, couldst thou part? 

■ See Wallcnstcin, Act 6th. 



I hear the rustling banners ; and I hear 
The wind's low singing througn the fretted 
stone; 
I hear not thee; and yet I feel thee near — 

What is this bound that keeps thee from thine 
own? 

Breathe it away ! 

I wait thee — I adjure thee! hast thou known 
How I have loved thee 1 couldst thou dream it 

ain 

Am I not here, with night and death alone, 
And fearing not? and hath my spirit's call 
O'er thine no sway ? 

Thou canst not come! or thus I should not weep! 

Thy love is deathless — but no longer free ! 
Soon would its wing triumphantly o'ersweep 

The viewless barrier, if such power might be, 
Soon, soon, and fast! 

But I shall come to thee! our souls' deep dreams, 
Our young affections, have not gushetl in vain ; 

Soon ia one tide shall blend the severed streams, 
The worn heart break its bonds — and death and 



pain 



Be with the past! 



THE SISTERS OF SCIO. 



As are our hearts, our way is one, 
And can not be divided. Strong affection 
Contends with all things, and o'ercometh all things, 
Will I not live with thee? will I not cheer thee? 
Wouldst thou be lonely then? wouldst thou be sadT 
Joanna Baillie. 



" Sister, sweet Sister! let me weep awhile! 

Bear with me — give the sudden passion way !^» 
Thoughts of our own lost home, our sunny islc,l^ 

Come, as a wind that o'er a reed hath sway; 
Till my heart dies with yearnings and sick fears ; 
Oh ! could my life melt from me in these tears ! 

" Our father's voice^ our mother's gentle eye. 
Our brother's bounding step — where are they, 
where ? 

Desolate, desolate our chambers lie ! 

— How hast thou won thy spirit from despair? 

O'er mi7ie swift shadows, gusts of terror, sweep;— 

I sink away — bear with me — let me weep !" 

"Yes! weep, my Sister! weep, till from thy heart 
The weight flow forth in tears; yet sink thou 
not! 

I bind my sorrow to a lofty part. 
For thee, my gentle one ! our orphan lot 

To meet in quenchless trust; my soul is strong-— 

Thou, too, wilt rise in holy might ere long. 



SONGS OP THE AFFECTIONS. 



239 



" A breath of our free heavens and noble sires, 
A memory of our old victorious dead, — 

These mantle me with power ! and though their 
fires 
In a frail censer briefly may be shed. 

Yet shall they light us onward, side by side; — 

Have the wild birds, and have not we, a guide ? 

" Cheer, then, beloved ! on whose meek brow is set 
Our mother's image — in whose voice a tone, 

A faint sweet sound of her's is lingering yet, 
An echo of our childhood's music gone ; — 

Cheer thee ! thy Sister's heart and faith are high ; 

Our path is one — with thee I live and die!" 



BERNARDO DEL CARPIO. 

The celebrated Spanish champion, Bernardo del 
Carpio, having made many ineffectual efforts to 
procure the release of his father, the Count Sal- 
dana, who had been imimsoned by King Alfonso 
of Asturias, almost from the time of Bernardo's 
birth, at last took up arms in despair. The war 
which he maintained proved so destructive that 
the men of the land gathered round the King, and 
united in demanding Saldana's liberty. Alfonso, 
accordingly, offered Bernardo immediate possession 
of his father's person, in exchange for his castle 
of Carpio. Bernardo, without hesitation, gave u] 
his strong-hold, with all his ca)>tivcs; and being 
assured that iiis father was then on his way from 
prison, rode forth with the King to meet him. 
"And when he saw his father approaching, he 
exclaimed," says tho, ancient chronicle, "'Oh, 
God! is the Count of Saldana indeed coming? — 
'Look where he is,' replied the cruel King, 'and 
now go and greet him whom you have so long 
desired to see.' " The remainder of the story will 
be found related in the ballad. The chronicles 
and romances leave us nearly in the dark as to 
Bernardo's history after this event. 



The warrior bowed his crested head, and tamed 
his heart of fire, 

And sued the haughty king to free his long-im- 
prisoned sire; 

" I bring thee here my fortress keys, I bring my 
captive train, 

I pledge thee faith, my liege, my lord ! — oh, break 
my father's chain !" 

"Rise, rise! even now thy father comes, a ran- 
somed man this -iay; 

Mount thy good lior«e, and thou and I will meet 
him on his way." 

Then lightly rose that loyal son, and liounded on 
his steed. 

And urged, as if with lance in rest, the charger's 
foamy speed. 



And lo ! from far, as on they pressed, there came 

a glittering iiand. 
With one that 'midst them stately rode, as a leader 

in the land ; 
"Now haste, Bernardo, haste! for there, in very 

trutii, is he, 
The father whom thy faithful heart hath yearned 

so long to see." 

His dark eye flashed, his proud breast heaved, hia 
cheek's blood came and went; 

He reached that gray-haired chieftain's side, and 
there, dismounting, bent; 

A lowly knee to earth he bent, his father's hand 
he took, — 

What was there in its touch that all his fiery spi- 
rit shook? 

That hand was cold — a frozen thing — it dropped 

from his like lead. — 
He looked up to the face above — the face was of 

the dead! 
A plume waved o'er the noble brow — the brow 

was fixed and white; — 
He met at last his father's eyes — but in them was 

no sight ! 

Up from the ground he sprung, and gazed, but 
who could paint that gazel 

They hushed their very hearts, that saw its hor- 
ror and amaze; 

They might have chained him, as before that stony 
form he stood, 

For the power was stricken from his arm, and 
from his lip the blood. 

" Father !" at length he murmured low — and wept 

like childhood then, — 
Talk not of grief till thou hast seen the tears of 

warlike men ! — 
He thought on all his glorious hopes, and all his 

young renown, — 
He flung the falchion from his side, and in the 

dust sate down. 

Then covering with his steel-gloved hands his 

darkly mournful brow, 
" No more, there is no more," he said, "to hft the 

sword for now. — 
My king is false, my hope betrayed, my Father — 

oh! the worth. 
The glory, and the loveliness, are passed away 

from earth! 

"I thought to stand where banners waved, my 

sire! beside thee yet, 
I would that there our kindred blood on Spain's 

free soil had met, — 



240 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



Thou wouldst have known my spirit then, — for 

thee my fields were won, — 
And thou hast perishejt in thy chains, as though 

thou hadst no son!" 

Then, starting from the ground once more, he 
seized the monarch's rein. 

Amidst the pale and wildered looks of all the 
courtier train; 

And with a fierce, o'ermastering grasp, the rearing 
war-horse led, 

And sternly set them face to face, — the king be- 
fore the dead! — 

" Came I not forth upon thy pledge, my father's 

hand to kiss 1 — 
Be still, and gaze thou on, false king ! and tell me 

what is this I 
The voice, the glance, the heart I sought — gave 

an&wer, where are theyl — 
If thou wouldst clear thy perjured soul, send life 

through this cold clay ! 

" Into these glassy eyes put light, — be still ! keep 
down thine ire, — 

Bid these white lips a blessing speak — this earth 
is not my sire ! ' 

Give me back him for whom 1 strove, for whom 
my blood was shed, — 

Thou canst not — and a king 1 — His dust be moun- 
tains on thy head !" 

He loosed the steed; his slack hand fell, — upon 
the silent face 

He cast one long, deep, troubled look, — then turn- 
ed from that sad place : 

His hope was crushed, his after-fate untold in mar- 
tial strain, — 

His banner led the spears no more amidst the hills 
of Spain. 



THE TOMB OF MADAME LANG- 
HANS.* 

To a mysteriously consorted pair 
This place is consecrate ; to death and life, 
And to the best affections that proceed 
From this conjunction. 

Wordsworth. 

How many hopes were borne upon thy bier, 
O bride of striken love ! in anguish hither ! 
Like flowers, the first and fairest of the year 
Plucked on the bosom of the dead to wither ; 



* At Hindlebank, near Berne, she is represented as bursting 
from the sepulchre, with her infant in her arms, at the sound 
of the last trumpet. An inscription on the tomb concludes 
thus :— " Here am I, O God ! with the child whom thou hast 
given me." 



Hopes, from their source all holy, though of earth, 
All brightly gathering round affection's hearth. 

Of mingled prayer they told; of Sabbath hours; 
Of morn's farewell, and evening's blessed meeting; 
Of childhood's voice, amidst the household bowers; 
And bounding step, and smile of joyous greeting ; 
But thou, young mother ! to thy gentle heart 
Didst take thy babe, and meekly so depart. 

How many hopes have sprung in radiance hence! 
Their trace yet lights the dust where thou art 

sleeping ! 
A solemn joy comes o'er me, and a sense 
Of triumph, blent with nature's gush of weeping, 
As, kindling up the silent stone, I see 
The glorious vision, caught by faith, of thee. 

Slumberer ! love calls thee, for the night is past ; 
Put on the immortal beauty of thy waking ! 
Captive ! and hear'st thou not the trumpet's blast, 
The long, victorious note, thy bondage breaking % 
Thou hear'st, thou answer'st, " God of earth and 

Heaven ! 
Here am I, with the child whom thou hast given !" 



THE EXILE'S DIRGE.* 

Fear no more the heat o' the sun, 
Nor the furious Winter's rages, 
TIiou thy wordly task hast done, 
Home art gone, and ta'en thy wages. 

Cymbcline. 

I attended a funeral where there were a number 
of the German settlers present. After I had per- 
formed such service as is usual on similar occa- 
sions, a most venerable-looking old man came for- 
ward, and asked me if I were willing that they 
should perform some of their peculiar rites. He 
opened a very ancient version of Luther's Hymns, 
and they all began to sing, in German, so loud that 
the woods echoed the strain. There was something 
affecting in the singing of these ancient people, 
carrying one of their brethren to his last home, and 
using the language and rites which they had 
brought with them over the sea from the Vatcr- 
land, a word which often occurred in this hymn. 
It was a long, slow, and mournful air, which they 
sung as they bore the body along ; the words " inein 
Gott" " mein Bruder" and " Vaterland" died 
away in distant echoes amongst the woods. I shall 
long remember that funeral hymn. — Flint's Re- 
collections of the Valley of the Mississippi. 

There went a dirge through the forest's gloom 
— 'An exile was borne to a lonely tomb. 



• Published in the Winter's Wreath for 1830. 



SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 



241 



"Brother !" (so the chant was sung 
In the slumberer's native tongue,) 
" Friend and brother ! not for thee 
Shall the sound of weeping be : — 
Long the Exile's wo hath lain 
On thy life a withering chain ; 
Music from thine own blue streams, 
Wandered through thy fever-dreams; 
Voices from thy country's vines, 
Met thee 'midst the alien pines, 
And thy true heart died away ; 
And thy spirit would not stay." 

So swelled the chant; and the deep wind's moan 
Seemed through the cedars to murmur — "Gone!" 

" Brother by the rolling Rhine, 
Stands the home that once was thine — 
Brother ! now thy dwelling lies 
Where the Indian arrow flies ! 
He that blest thine infant head, 
Fills a distant greensward bed ; 
She that heard thy lisping prayer. 
Slumbers low beside him there ; 
They that earliest with thee played, 
Rest beneath their own oak shade. 
Far, far hence ! — yet sea nor shore 
Haply, brother ! part ye more ; 
God hath called thee to that band 
In the immortal Fatherland!" 

" The Fatherland .'" — with that sweet word 
A burst of tears 'midst the strain was heard. 

" Brother ! were we there with thee 
Rich would many a meeting be ! 
Many a broken garland bound, 
Many a mourned and lost one found ! 
But our task is still to bear, 
Still to breathe in changeful air ; 
Loved and bright things to resign, 
As even now this dust of thine; 
Yet to hope I — to hope in Heaven, 
Though flowers fall, and ties be riven — 
Yet to pray ! and wait the hand 
Beckoning to the Fatherland !" 

And the requiem died in the forest's gloom ; — 
They had reached the Exile's lonely tomb. 



THE DREAMING CHILD. 



Alas! what kind of grief should thy years know? 
Thy brow and cheek are smooth as waters be 
When no breath troubies them. 

Beaumont and Flelcher. 



And is there sadness in thy dreams, my boy 7 



Thy spirit, borne upon a breeze of joy 
All day hath ranged through sunshine, clear, yet 
mild : 

And now thou tremblest! — wherefore? — in thy 

soul 

There lies no past, no future. — Thou hast heard 

No sound of presage from the distance roll, 

Thy heart bears traces of no arrowy word 

• 
From thee no love hath gone ; thy mind's young 

eye 

Hath looked not into Death's, and thence become 

A questioner of mute Eternity, 

A weary searcher for a viewless home : 

Nor hath thy sense been quickened unto pain, 
By feverish watching for some step beloved ; 
Free are thy thoughts, an ever-changeful train, 
Glancing Uke dewdrops, and as lightly moved. 

Yet now, on billows of strange passion tossed,. 
How art thou wiklered in the cave of sleep ! 
My gentle child ! 'midst what dim phantoms lost, 
Thus in mysterious anguish dost thou weep? 

Awake ! they sadden me — those early tears, 
First gusliings of the strong dark river's flow 
That must o'ersweep thy soul with coming years 
The unfathomable flood of human wo ! 

Awful to watch, ev'n rolling through a dream, 
Forcing wild spray-drops but from childhood's 

eyes ! 
Wake, wake ! as yet thy life's transparent stream 
Should wear the tinge of none but sunnner skies. 

Come from the shadow of those realms unknown, 
Where now thy thoughts dismayed and darkling 

rove; 
Come to the kindly region all thine own. 
The home still bright for thee with guardian love. 

Happy, fair child ! that yet a mother's voice 
Can win thee back from visionary strife ! — 
Oh! shall my soul, thus wakened to rejoice, 
Start from the dreamlike wilderness of life "? 



THE CHARMED PICTURE. 



Oh ! that those lips had language !— Life hath passed 
With me but roughly since I saw thee laat. 

Cowper. 

Thine eyes are charmed — thine earnest eyes — 

Thou image of the dead ! 
A spell within their sweetness lies, 



What should the cloud be made of ? — blessed child ! ! A virtue thence is shed. 



242 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



Oft in their meek blue light enshrined, 

A blessing seems to be, 
And sometimes there my wayward mind 

A still reproach can see : 

And sometimes Pity — soft and deep, 

And quivering through a tear ; 
Even as if Love in Heaven could weep. 

For Grief left drooping here. 

And oh ! my spirit needs that balm, 

Needs it 'midst fitful mirth ; 
And in the night-hour's haunted calm. 

And by the lonely hearth. 

Look on me thus, when hollow praise 

Hath made the weary pine 
For one true tone of other days, 

One glance of love like thine ! 

Look on me thus, when sudden glee 

Bears my quick heart along, . 
On wings that struggle to be free. 

As bursts of skylark song. 

In vain, in vain ! — too soon are felt 

The wounds they can not flee ; 
Better in childlike tears to melt, 

Pouring my soul on thee ! 

Sweet face, that o'er my childhood shone, 

Whence is thy power of change. 
Thus ever shadowing back my own, 

The rapid and the strange 7 

Whence are they charmed — those earnest eyes 1 

— I know the mystery well ! 
In mine own trembling bosom lies 

The spirit of the spell i 

Of Memory, Conscience, Love, 'tis born — 

Oh ! change no longer, thou ! 
For ever be the blessing worn 

On thy pure thoughtful brow ! 



PARTING WORDS. 



One struggle more, and I am free. 



Byron. 



Leave me, oh ! leave me ! — unto all below 
Thy presence binds me with too deep a spell ; 
Thou mak'st those mortal regions, whence I go. 
Too mighty in their loveliness — farewell, 
That I may part in peace ! 

Leave me ! — thy footstep, with its lightest sound. 
The very shadow of thy waving hair, 



Wakes in my soul a feeling too profound. 
Too strong for aught that loves and dies, to bear — 
Oh ! bid the conflict cease ! 

I hear thy whisper — and the warm tears gush 
Into mine eyes, the quick pulse thrills my heart: 
Thou bid'st the peace, the reverential hush. 
The still submission, from my thoughts depart ; 
Dear one ! this must not be. 

The past looks on me from thy mournful eye, 
The beauty of our free and vernal days ; 
Our communings with sea, and hill, and sky- 
Oh ! take that bright world from my spirit's gaze ! 
Thou art all earth to me ! 

Shut out the sunshine from my dying room. 
The jasmine's breath, the murmur of the bee ; 
Let not the joy of bird-notes pierce the gloom ! 
They speak of love, of summer, and of thee, 
Too much — and death is here ! 

Doth our own spring make happy music now, 
From the old beech-roots flashing into day 1 
Are the pure lilies imaged in its flow 1 
Alas ! vain thoughts ! that fondly thus can stray 
From the dread hour so near ! 

If I could but draw courage from the light 
Of thy clear eye, that ever shone to bless ! 
— Not now ! 'twill not be now ! — my aching sight 
Drinks from that fount a flood of tenderness. 
Bearing all strength away ! 

Leave me ! — thou com'st between my heart and 

Heaven ! 
I would be still, in voiceless prayer to die ! 
— Why must our souls thus love, and then be riven T 
— Return ! thy parting wakes mine agony ! 
— Oh, yet awhile delay ! 



THE MESSAGE TO THE DEAD.* 

Thou 'rt passing hence, my brother ! 

Oh ! my earliest friend, farewell ! 
Thou 'rt leaving me, without thy voice, 

In a lonely home to dwell ; 
And from the hills, and from the hearth, 

And from the household-tree, 
With thee departs the lingering mirth. 

The brightness goes with thee. 



* " Messages from the living to the dead are not uncommon 
in the Highlands.- The Gael have such a ceaseless conscious- 
ness of immortality, that their departed friends are consider- 
ed as merely absent for a time, and permitted to relieve the 
hours of separation by occasional intercourse with the objects 
of their earliest affections."— /See the Notes to Mrs. Brun- 
ton's Works. 



SONGS OP THE AFFECTIONS. 



243 



But thou, my friend, my brother ! 

Thou 'rt speeding to the shore 
Where the dirgelike tone of parting words 

Shall smite the soul no more ! 
And thou wilt see our holy dead ; 

The lost on earth and main ; 
Into the sheaf of kindred hearts, 

Thou wilt be bound again ! 

Tell, then, our friend of boyhood. 

That yet his name is heard 
On the blue mountains, whence his youth 

Passed like a swift bright bird. 
The light of his exulting brow, 

The vision of his glee, 
Are on me still— Oh ! still I trust 

That smile again to see. 

And tell our fair young sister, 

The rose cut down in spring, 
That yet my gushing soul is filled 

With lays she loved to sing. 
Her soft, deep eyes look through my dreams, 

Tender and sadly sweet ; — 
Tell her my heart within me burns 

Once more that gaze to meet ! 

And tell our white-haired father. 

That in the paths he trode, 
The child he loved, the last on earth, 

Yet walks and worships God. 
Say, that his last fond blessing yet 

Rests on my soul like dew. 
And by its hallowing might I trust 

Once more his face to view. 

And tell our gentle mother. 

That on her grave I pour 
The sorrows of my spirit forth, 

As on her breast of yore. 
Happy thou art that soon, how soon, 

Our good and brigiit will see ! — 
Oh ! brother, brother ! may I dwell. 

Ere long, with them and thee ! ' 



THE TWO HOMES. 



Oh! if the soul immortal be, 
Is not its love immortal too 1 



Seest thou my home! — 'tis where yon woods are 

waving. 
In their dark richness, to the summer air; 
Where yon blue stream, a thousand flower-banks 

laving, 
Leads down the hills a vein of lisht, — 'tis there ! 



'Midst those green wilds how many a fount lies 

gleaming, 
Fringed with the violet, coloured with the skies ! 
My boyhood's haunt, through days of summer 

dreaming, 
Under young leaves that shook with melodies. 

My home ! the spirit of its love is breathing 
In every wind that plays across my track ; 
From its white walls the very tendrils wreathing, 
Seem with soft links to draw the wanderer back. 

There am I loved — there prayed for — there my 
mother 

Sits by the hearth with meekly thoughtful eye; 

There my young sisters watcii to greet their bro- 
ther 

— Soon their glad footsteps down the path will fly. 

There, in sweet strains of kindred music blending, 
AH the home-voices meet at day's decline; 
One are those tones, as from one heart ascending, — 
There laughs my home — sad stranger! where is 
thine 7 

Ask'st thou of mine 1 — In solemn peace 'tis lying. 
Far o'er the deserts and the tonibs away; 
'T is where /, too, am loved with love undying, 
And fond hearts wait my step — But where are 
they 1 

Ask where the earth's departed have their dwell- 
ing! 

Ask of the clouds, the stars, the trackless air! 
I know it not, yet trust the whisper, telling 
My lonely heart, that love unchanged is there. 

And what is home, and where, but with the lov- 
ing 1 
Happy thou art, that so canst gaze on thine ! 
My spirit feels but, in its weary roving, 
That with the dead, where'er they be, is mine. 

Go to thy home, rejoicing son and brother ! 
Bear in fresh gladness to the household scene! 
For me, too, watch the sister and the mother, 
I well believe — but dark seas roll between. 



TflE SOLDIER'S DEATH-BED. 



Wie herrlich die Sonne dort untergelit! da ich noch ein 
Bube war — war's mein Lieblingsgedunke, wie sie zu leben, 
wie sie zu sterben ! 

Die Raiiber. 



Like thee to die, thou sun! — My boyhood's dream 
Was this; and now my si)irit, with thy beam, 
Ebbs from a field of victory ! — yet the hour 
Bears back upon me, with a torrent's power, 



2U 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



Nature's deep longings: — Oh ! for some kind eye, 

Wherein to meet love's fervent farewell gaze ; 

Some breast to pillow life's last agony, 

Some voice, to speak of hope and brighter days, 

Beyond the pass of shadows ! — But I go, 

I, that have been so loved, go hence alone ; 

And ye, now gathering round my own hearth's 

glow, 
Sweet friends ! it may be that a softer tone, 
Even in this moment, v^'ith your laughing glee. 
Mingles its cadence while yoii speak of me : 
Of me, your soldier, 'midst the mountains lying. 
On the red banner of his battles dying, 
Far, far away ! — and oh I your parting prayer — 
Will not his name be fondly murmured there 1 
It will ! — A blessing on that holy hearth ! 
Though clouds are darkening to o'ercast its mirth. 
Mother ! I may not hear thy voice again ; 
Sisters ! ye watch to greet my step in vain ; 
Young brother, fare thee well ! — on each dear head 
Blessing and love a thousandfold be shed. 
My soul's last earthly breathings ! — May your 

home - 
Smile for you ever ! — May no winter come, 
No world between your hearts! May ev'n your 

tears 
For my sake, full of long-remembered years, 
Cluicken the true affections that entwine 
Your lives in one bright bond ! — I may not sleep 
Amidst our fathers, where those tears might shine 
Over my slumbers ; yet your love will keep 
My memory living in the ancestral halls, 
Where shame hath never trod : — the dark night 

falls. 
And I depart. — The brave are gone to rest, 
The brothers of my combats, on the breast 
Of the red field they reaped : — their work is done — 
Thou, too, art set ! — farewell, farewell, thou sun! 
The last lone watcher of the bloody sod. 
Offers a trusting spirit up to God. 



THE IMAGE IN THE HEART. 



True, indeed, it is, 
That they whom death has hidden from our sight, 
Are worthiest of the mind's regard ; with them 
The future can not contradict the past — 
MortaUty's last exercise and proof 
Is undergone. 

Wordsicorth. 

The love where death has set his seal, 
Nor age can chill, nor rival steal, 

Nor falsehood disavow. 

Byron. 

I CALL thee blest! — though now the voice be fled. 
Which, to thy soul, brought dayspring with its tone, 



And o'er the gentle eyes though dust be spread, 
Eyes that ne'er looked on thine but light wasthrown 
Far through thy breast: 

And though the music of thy hfe he broken, 
Or changed in every chord, since he is gone, 
Feeling all this, even yet, by many a token, 
O thou, the deeply, but the brightly lone ! 
I call thee blest ! 

For in thy heart there is a holy spot, 
As 'mid the waste an Isle of fount and palm. 
For ever green ! — the world's breath enters not 
^The passion-tempests may not break its calm ; 
'T is thine, all thine ! 

Thither, in trust unbaffled, mayst thou turn. 
From bitter words, cold greetings, heartless eyes, 
Gluenching thy soul's thirst at the hidden urn 
That, filled with waters of sweet memory, hes 
In its own shrine. 

Thou hast thy hoine ! — there is no power in change 
To reach that temple of the past ; — no sway, 
In all times brings of sudden, dark, or strange, 
To sweep the still transparent peace away 
From its hushed air ! 

And oh ! that glorious image of the dead ! 
Sole thing whereon a deathless love may rest. 
And in deep faith and dreamy worship shed 
Its high gifts fearlessly ! — I call thee blest, 
If only there ! 

Blest, for the beautiful within thee dwelling, 
Never to fade ! — a refuge from distrust, 
A spring of purer life, still freshly welling. 
To clothe the barrenness of earthly dust 
With flowers divine. 

And thou hast been beloved ! — it is no dream, 
No false mirage for thee, the fervent love. 
The rainbow still unreached, the ideal gleam, 
That ever seems before, beyond, above, 
Far off to shine. 

But thou, from all the daughters of the earth 
Singled and marked, hast known its home and 

place ; 
And the high memory of its holy worth. 
To this our life a glory and a grace 

For thee hath given. 

And art thou not still fondly, truly loved? 
Thou art ! — the love his spirit bore away,^ 
Was not for death ! — a treasure but removed, 
A bright bird parted for a clearer day, — 

Thine still in Heaven ! 



SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 



245 



THE LAND OF DREAMS. 



And dreams, in their development, liave breath, 
And tears, and tortures, and the touch of joy ; 
They leave a weight upon our waking thoughts, 
They make us what we were not— what they will, 
And shake us with the vision that's gone by. 

Byron. 



Spirit-Land ! thou land of dreams! 
A world thou art of mysterious gleams, 
Of startling voices, and sounds at strife, — 
A world of the dead in the hues of Ufe. 

Like a wizard's magic glass thou art, 
When the wavy shadows float by, and part : 
Visions of aspects, now loved, now strange. 
Glimmering and mingling in ceaseless change. 

Thou art like a city of the past, 
With its gorgeous halls into fragments cast, 
Amidst whose ruins there glide and play 
Familiar forms of the world's to-day. 

Thou art like the depths where the seas have birth. 
Rich with the wealth that is lost from earth, — 
AH the sere flowers of our days gone by, 
And the buried gems in thy bosom lie. 

Yes ! thou art like those dim sea-caves, 

A realm of treasures, a realm of graves! 

And the shapes through thy mysteries that come 

and go. 
Are of beauty and terror, of power and wo. 

But for me, O thou picture-land of sleep ! 
Thou art all one world of aflTcctions deep, — 
And wrung from my heart is each flushing dye. 
That sweeps o'er thy chambers of imagery. 

And thy bowers are fair — even as Eden fair 
All the beloved of my soul are there! 
The forms my spirit most pines to see. 
The eyes, whose love hath been life to me : 

They are there, — and each blessed voice I hear, 
Kindly, and joyous, and silvery clear; 
But undcr-tones are in each, that say, — 
<' It is but a dream ; it will melt away!" 

1 walk with sweet friends in the sunset's glow; 
I listen to music of long ago ; 

But one thought, like an omen, breathes feiint 

through the lay, — 
" It is but a dream; it will melt away!" 

I sit by the hearth of my early days; 
All the home-faces are met by the blaze, — 
And the eyes of the mother shine soft, yet say, 
" It is but a dream; it will rnelt away!" 



And away, like a flower's passing breath, 'tis gone, 
And I wake more sadly, more deeply lone ! 
Oh! a haunted heart is a weight to bear, — 
Bright faces, kind voices! where are ye, where ^ 

Shadow not forth, O thou land of dreams, 
The past, as it fled by my own blue streams ! 
Make not my spirit within me burn 
For the scenes and the hours that may ne'er re- 
turn ! 

Call out from the future thy visions bright. 
From the world o'er the grave, take thy solemn 

light. 
And oh ! with the loved, whom no more I see, 
Show me my home, as it yet may be ! 

As it yet may be, in some purer sphere. 
No cloud, no parting, no sleepless fear; 
So my soul may bear on through the long, long 

day, 
Till I go where the beautiful melts not away ! 



WOMAN ON THE FIELD OP BATTLE. 



Wliere hath not woman stood, 
Strong in afiection's might! a reed, upborne 
By an o'ermastering current ! 



Gentle and lovely form. 
What didst thou here. 

When the fierce battle-storm 
Bore down the spear 1 

Banner and shivered crest. 

Beside thee strown. 
Tell that amidst the best. 
Thy work was done ! 

Yet strangely, sadly fair, 

O'er the wild scene, 
Gleams, through its golden hair, 

That brow serene. 

Low lies the stately head, — 
Earth-bound the free ; 

How gave those haughty dead 
A place to thee? 

Slumberer ! thine early bier 
Friends should have crowned, 

Many a flower and tear 
Shedding' around. 

Soft voices clear and young, 

Mingling their swell. 
Should o'er thy dust have sung 

Earth's last farewell. 



246 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS- 



Sisters, above the grave 

Of thy repose, 
Should have bid violets wave 

With the white rose. 

Now must the trumpet's note, 

Savage and shrill, 
For requiem o'er thee float, 

Thou fair and still! 

And the swift charger sweep, 

In full career, 
Trampling thy place of sleep, — 

Why earnest thou here 1 

Why 7 — ask the true heart why 

Woman hath been 
Ever, where brave men die, 

Unshrinking seen 1 

Unto this harvest ground 
Proud reapers came, — 

Some, for that stirring sound 
A warrior's name ; 

Some, for the stormy play 

And joy of strife ; — 
And some, to fling away 

A weary life : — 

But thou, pale sleeper, thou, 
With the slight frame, 

And the rich locks, whose glow 
Death can not tame ; 

Only one thought, one power, 

Thee could have led, 
So, through the tempest's hour, 

To lifl; thy head ! 

Only the true, the strong. 
The love, whose trust 

Woman's deep soul too long 
Pours on the dust ! 



THE DESERTED HOUSE. 

Gloom is upon thy lonely hearth, 

O silent house ! once filled with mirth ; 

Sorrow is in the breezy sound, 

Of thy tall poplars whispering round. 

The shadow of departed hours 
Hangs dim upon thine early flowers ; 
Even in thy sunshine seems to brood 
Something more deep than solitude. 

Fair art thou, fair to a stranger's gaze. 
Mine own sweet home of other days ! 
My children's birth place ! yet for me, 
It is too much to look on thee. 



Too much ! for all about thee spread, 
I feel the memory of the dead, 
And almost linger for the feet 
That never more my step shall meet. 

The looks, the smiles, all vanished now. 
Follow me where thy roses blow ; 
The echoes of kind household words 
Are with me 'midst thy singing birds. 

Till my heart dies, it dies away 
In yearnings for what might not stay; 
For love which ne'er deceived my trust. 
For all which went with "dust to dust !" 

What now is left me, but to raise 
From thee, lorn spot ! my spirit's gaze. 
To lift, through tears, my straining eye 
Up to my Father's house on high"? 

Oh ! many are the mansions there,* 
But not in one hatli grief a share ! 
No haunting shade from things gone by, 
May there o'ersweep the unchanging sky. 

And theij are there, whose long-loved mien 
In earthly home no more is seen ; 
Whose places, where they smiling sate, 
Are left unto us desolate. 

We miss them when the board is spread ; 
We miss them when the prayer is said ; 
Upon our dreams their dying eyes 
In still and mournful fondness rise. 

But they are where these longings vain 
Trouble no more the heart and brain ; 
The sadness of this aching love 
Dims not our Father's house above. 

Ye are at rest, and I in tears,t 
Ye dwellers of immortal spheres ! 
Under the poplar boughs I stand, 
And mourn the broken household band. 

But, by your life of lowly faith. 
And by your joyful hope in death. 
Guide me, till on some brighter shore. 
The severed wreath is bound once more !'' 

Holy ye were, and good, and true ! 
No change can cloud my thoughts of you ; 
Guide me, like you, to live and die. 
And reach my Father's house on high ! 



* In my Father's house there are many mansions. 

John, chap, xi? 
t From an ancient Hebrevr dirge : 

" Mom-n for the mourner, and not for the. dead, 

For he is at rest, and we in tears 1" 



SONGS OP THE AFFECTIONS. 



247 



THE STRANGER'S HEART. 

The stranger's heart ! Oh ! wound it not ! 
A yearning anguish is its lot ; 
In the green shadow of thy tree, 
The stranger finds no rest with thee. 

Thou think'st the vine's low rustling leaves 
Glad music round thy household eaves ; 
To him that sound hath sorrow's tone — 
The stranger's heart is with his own. 

Thou think'st thy children's laughing play 
A lovely sight at fall of day ; — 
Then are the stranger's thoughts oppressed — 
His mother's voice comes o'er his breast. 

Thou think'st it sweet when friend with friend 
Beneath one roof in prayer may blend ; 
Then doth the stranger's eye grow dim — 
Far, far are those who prayed with him. 

Thy hearth, thy home, thy vintage land — 
The voices of thy kindred band — 
Oh ! 'midst them all when blest thou art, 
Deal gently with the stranger's heart ! 



COME HOME. 

Come home! — there is a sorrowing breath 

In music since ye went. 
And the early flower-scents wander by, 

With mournful memories blent. 
The tones in every household voice 

Are grown more sad and deep. 
And the sweet word — brother — wakes a Wish 

To turn aside and weep. 

O ye Beloved! come home! — the hour 

Of many a greeting tone, 
The time of hearth-light and of song. 

Returns — and ye are gone! 
And darkly, heavily it falls 

On the forsaken room, 
Burdening the heart with tenderness, 

That deepens 'midst the gloom. 

Where finds it you, ye wandering ones? 

With all your boyhood's glee 
Untamed, beneath the desert's palm, 

Or on the lone mid-sea? 
By stormy hills of battles old ? 

.Or where dark rivers foam? 
— Oh ! life is dim where ye are not — 

Back, ye beloved, come home ! 

Come with the leaves and winds of spring, 

And swift birds, o'er the main ! 
Our love is grown too sorrowful — 

Bring us its youth again ! 



Bring the glad tones to music back ! 

Still, still your home is fair, 
The spirit of your sunny life 

Alone is wanting there ! 



THE FOUNTAIN OF OBLIVION. 

"Implora pace!"* 

One draught, kind Fairy ! from that fountain deep, 
To lay the phantoms of a haunted breast, 
And lone affections, which are griefs, to steqi 
In the cool honey-dews of dreamless rest ; 
And from the soul the lightning-marks to lave — 
One draught of that sweet wave ! 

Yet, mortal, pause! — within thy mind is laid 
Wealth, gathered long and slowly ; thoughts divine 
Heap that full treasure-house ; and thou hast made 
The gems of many a spirit's ocean thine ; 
— Shall the dark waters to oblivion bear 
A pyramid so fair? 

Pour from the fount ! and let the draught efface 
All the vain lore by memory's pride amassed, 
So it but sweep along the torrent's trace. 
And fill the hollow channels of the past ; 
And from the bosom's inmost folded leaf, 
Rase the one master-grief! 

Yet pause once more !— all, all thy soul hath known , 
Loved, felt, rejoiced in, from its grasp must fade ! 
Is there no voice whose kind awakening tone 
A sense of spring-time in thy heart hath made ? 
No eye whose glance thy day-dreams would recall? 
— Think — wouldstthou part with all? 

Fill with forgctfulness ! — there are, there are 
Voices whose music I have loved too well ; 
Eyes of deep gentleness — but they are far — 
Never! oh — never, in my home to dwell ! 
Take their soft looks from off my yearning soul — 
Fill high th' oblivious bowl ! 

Yet pause again ! — with memory wilt thou cast 
The undying hope away, of memory born? 
Hope of re-union, heart to heart at last. 
No restless doubt between, no rankling thorn ? 
Wouldst thou erase all records of delight 

That make such visions bright ? 



• Quoted from a letter of Lord Byron's?. He describes the 
impression produced upon liim by some tombs at Bologna, 
bearing this simple inscription, and adds, "When I die, I 
could wish that some friend would see these words, and no 
other, placed above my ^ravc—' Implora pace.' " 



248 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



Fill with forgetfulness, fill high ! — yet stay — 
• — 'T is from the past we shadow forth the land 
Where smiles, long lost, again shall light our way, 
And the soul's friends be wreath'd in one bright band: 
— Pour the sweet waters back on their own rill, 
I viust remember still. 



For their sake, for the dead — whose image nought 
May dim within the temple of my breast — 
For their love's sake, which now no earthly thought 
May shake or trouble with its own unrest, 
Though the past haunt me as a spirit, — yet 
I ask not to forget. 



>snin^ on tlie W^i^x^n oc Stature, 

FOR THE USE OF CHILDREN. 



[The following Hymns were written expressly 
for the use of Mrs. Hemans's own children. She 
has consented to their publication, in the hope that 
they may be useful to others. The editor trusts 
that they will afford a new source of gratification 
to her admirers and friends in this country. 

To the Hymns are added two beautiful little 
poems before published, addressed by Mrs. Hemans 
to her children. A. N.] 



INTRODUCTORY VERSES. 

Oh ! blest art thou, whose steps may rove 
Through the green paths of vale and grove, 
Or, leaving all their charms below, 
Climb the wild mountain's airy brow ; 

And gaze afar o'er cultured plains, 
And cities with their stately fanes, 
And forests, that beneath thee lie, 
And ocean mingling with the sky. 

For man can show thee nought so fair, 
As Nature's varied marvels there ; 
And if thy pure and artless breast 
Can feel their grandeur, thou art blest ! 

For thee the stream in beauty flows, 
For thee the gale of summer blows. 
And, in deep glen and wood-walk free. 
Voices of joy still breathe for thee. 

But happier far, if then thy soul 
Can soar to Him who made the whole. 
If to thine eye the simplest flower 
Portray His bounty and His power. 

If, in whate'er is bright or grand, 
Thy mind can trace His viewless hand. 
If Nature's music bid thee raise 
Thy song of gratitude and praise ; 

If heaven and earth, with beauty fraught 
Lead to his throne thy raptured thought, 
If there thou lov'st His love to read, 
Then, wanderer, thou art blest indeed. 



THE RAINBOW. 



I do set my bow in the cloud, and it shall be for a token of 
1 covenant between me and the earth. 

Genesis ix. 13. 



Soft falls the mild, reviving shower 

From April's changeful skies, 
And rain-drops bend each trembling flower 

They tinge with richer dyes. 

Soon shall their genial influence call 

A thousand buds to day, 
Which, waiting but their balmy fall. 

In hidden beauty lay. 

E'en now full many a blossom's bell 
With fragrance fills the shade ! 

And verdure clothes each grassy dell, 
In brighter tints arrayed. 

But mark ! what arch of varied hue 
From heaven to earth is bowed 1 

Haste, ere it vanish, haste to view 
The Rainbow in the cloud. 

How bright its glory! there behold 

The emerald's verdant rays, 
The topaz blends its hue of gold 

With the deep ruby's blaze. 

Yet not alone to charm thy sight 

Was given the vision fair ; — 
Gaze on that arch of coloured light, 

And read God's mercy there. 

It tells us that the mighty deep, 

Fast by th' Eternal chained, 
No more o'er earth's domains shall sweep, 

Awful and unrestrained. 

It tells that seasons, heat and cold. 

Fixed by his sovereign will, 
Shall, in their course, bid man behold 

Seed-time and harvest still ; 



HYMNS ON THE WORKS OP NATURE. 



249 



That still the flower shall deck the field, 
When the vernal zephyrs blow ; 

That still the vine its fruit shall yield, 
When autumn sun-beams glow. 

Then, child of that fair earth ! which yet 
Smiles with each charm endowed, 

Bless thou His name, whose mercy set 
The Rainbow in the cloud ! 



THE SUN. 



The Sun comes forth ; — each mountain height 

Glowa with a tinge of rosy light, 

And flowers that slumbered through the night, 

Their dewy leaves unfold ; 
A flood of splendour bursts on high. 
And ocean's breast reflects a sky 

Of crimson and of gold. 

Oh! thou art glorious, orb of day ! 
Exulting nations hail thy ray, 
Creation swells a choral lay, 

To welcome thy return ; 
From thee all nature draws her hues, 
Thy beams the insect's wings suffuse, 

And in the diamond burn. 

Yet must thou fade ; — ^when earth and heaven 
By fire and tempest shall be riven, 
Thou, from thy sphere of radiance driven. 

Oh Sun! must fall at last; 
Another heaven, another earth, 
Far other glory shall have birth. 

When all we see is past. 

But He, who gave the word of might, 
"Let there be light" — and there vias light, 
Who bade thee chase the gloom of night. 

And beam, the world to bless; — 
For ever bright, for ever pure, 
Alone unchanging shall endure. 

The Sun of nghteousness ! 



THE RIVERS. 

Go ! trace th' unnumbered streams, o'er earth 

That wind their devious course. 
That draw from Alpine heights their birth. 

Deep vale, or cavern source. 

Some by majestic cities glide. 

Proud scenes of man's renown, 
Some lead their solitary tide. 

Where pathless forests frown. 

Some calmly roll in golden sands, 

Where Afric's deserts lie I 
Or spread, to clothe rejoicing lands 

With rich fertility. 



There bear the bark, whose stately sail 

Exulting seems to swell; 
While these, scarce rippled by a gale. 

Sleep in the lonely dell. 

Yet on, alike, though swift or slow 
Their various waves may sweep. 

Through cities or through shades they flow 
To the same boundless deep. 

Oh ! thus, whate'er our path of life. 

Through sunshine or through gloom. 
Through scenes of quiet or of strife. 

Its end is still the tomb. 

The chief, whose mighty deeds we hail. 
The monarch throned on high. 

The peasant in his native vale. 
All journey on — to die ! 

But if Thy guardian care, my God ! 

The pilgrim's course attend, 
I will not fear the dark abode, 

To which my footsteps bend. 

For thence thine all-redeeming Son, 

Who died, the world to save, 
In light, in triumph, rose, and won 

The victory from the gravel 



THE STARS. 



The heavens declare the glory of God, and the firmament 
showeth his handy work. 

Psalm xix. 1. 



No cloud obscures the summer sky, 
The moon in brightness walks on high, 
And, set in azure, every star 
Shines, like a gem of heaven, afar ! 

Child of the earth ! oh ! lift thy glance 
To yon bright firmament's expanse; 
The glories of its realm explore, 
And gaze, and wonder, and adore ! 

Doth it not speak to every sense 
The marvels of Omnipotence ? 
Seest thou not there th' Almighty name, 
Inscribed in characters of flame 1 

Count o'er those lamps of quenchless light, 
That sparkle through the shades of night ! 
Behold them ! — can a mortal boast 
To number that celestial host 1 

Mark well each little star, whose rays • 
In distant splendour meet thy gaze; 
Each is a world by Him sustained. 
Who from eternity hath reigned. 



250 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



Each, shining not for earth alone, 
Hath suns and planets of its own, 
And beings, whose existence springs 
From Him, th' all-powerful King of kings. 

Haply, those glorious beings know 
Nor stain of guilt, nor tear of wo! 
But raising still th' adoring voice, 
For ever in their God rejoice. 

What then art thou, oh ! child of clay ! 
Amid creation's grandeur, say 1 
— E'en as an insect on the breeze. 
E'en as a dew-drop, lost in seas ! 

Yet fear thou not ! — the sovereign hand, 
Which spread the ocean and the land. 
And hung the rolling spheres in air, 
Hath, e'en for thee, a Father's care ! 

Be thou at peace! — th' all-seeing eye. 
Pervading earth, and air, and sky, 
The searching glance which none may flee. 
Is still, in mercy, turned on thee. 



THE OCEAN. 



They that go down to the sea in ships, that do business in 
great waters, these see the worlds of the Lord, and his wonders 
in the deep. 

Psalm cvii. 23, 24. 



He that in venturous barks hath been 

A wanderer on the deep. 
Can tell of many an awful scene, 

Where storms for ever sweep. 

For many a fair majestic sight 
Hath met his wandering eye, 

Beneath the streaming northern light. 
Or blaze of Indian sky. 

Go! ask him of the whirlpool's roar. 
Whose echoing thunder peals 

Loud, as if rushed along the shore 
An army's chariot wheels ; 

Of icebergs, floating o'er the main, 

Or fixed upon the coast. 
Like glittering citadel or fane, 

'Mid the bright realms of frost; 

• 
Of coral rocks from waves below 

In steep ascent that tower, 

And fraught with peril, daily grow, 

Formed by an insect's power ; 

Of sea-fires, which at dead of night 

Shine o'er the tides afar. 
And make th' expanse of ocean bright 

As heaven, with many a star. 



Oh God ! thy name they well may praise, 

Who to the deep go down. 
And trace the wonders of thy ways. 

Where rocks and billows frown. 

If glorious be that awful deep, 

No human power can bind. 
What then art Thou, who bidst it keep 

Within its bounds confined ! 

Let heaven and earth in praise unite, 

Eternal praise to Thee, 
Whose word can rouse the tempest's might, 

Or still the raging sea ! 



THE THUNDER STORM. 

Deep, fiery clouds o'ercast the sky. 

Dead stillness reigns in air. 
There is not e'en a breeze, on high 

The gossamer to bear. 

The woods are hushed, the waves at rest, 

The lake is dark and still. 
Reflecting, on its shadowy breast, 

Each form of rock and hill. 

The lime-leaf waves not in the grove. 

Nor rose-tree in the bower; 
The birds have ceased their songs of love, 

Awed by the threatening hour. 

'T is noon ; — yet Nature's calm profound 

Seems as at midnight deep; 
— But hark ! what peal of awful sound 

Breaks on creation's sleep 1 

The thunder bursts! — its rolling might 

Seems the firm hills to shake; 
And in terrific splendour bright, 

The gathered lightnings break. 

Yet fear not, shrink thou not, my child! 

Though by the bolt's descent 
Were the tall cliffs in ruins piled. 

And the wide forests rent. 

Doth not thy God behold thee still, 

With all-surveying eye "? 
Doth not his power all nature fill, 

Around, beneath, on high 7 

Know, hadst thou eagle-pinions free, 

To track the realms of air. 
Thou couldst not reach a spot where He 

Would not be with thee there ! 

In the wide city's peopled towers. 

On the vast ocean's plains, 
'Midst the deep woodland's loneliest bowers, 

Ahke th' Almighty reigns! 



HYMNS ON THE WORKS OF NATURE. 



251 



Then fear not, though the angry sky 
A thousand darts should cast ; — 

Why should we tremble, e'en to die, 
And be with Him at last 1 



THE BIRDS. 



Are not five sparrows sold for two farthings, and not one of 
them is forgotten before God. 

St. Luke, xii. 6. 

Tribes of the air! whose favoured race 
May wander through the realms of space. 

Free guests of earth and sky; 
In form, in plumage, and in song. 
What gifts of nature mark your throng 

With bright variety ! 

Nor differ less your forms, your flight. 
Your dwellings hid from hostile sight, 

And the wild haunts ye love ; 
Birds of the gentle beak !* how dear 
Your wood-note, to the wanderer's ear, 

In shadowy vale or grove ! 

Far other scenes, remote, sublime, 
Where swain or hunter may not climb, 

The mountain-eagle seeks; 
Alone he reigns, a monarch there. 
Scarce will the Chamois' footstep dare 

Ascend his Alpine peaks. 

Others there are, that make their home 
Where the white billows roar and foam, 

Around th' o'erhanging rock ; 
Fearless they skim the angry wave, 
Or sheltered in their sea-beat cave, 

The tempest's fury mock. 

Where Afric's burning realm expands, 
The ostrich haunts the desert sands, 

Parched by the blaze of day ; 
The swan, where northern rivers glide. 
Through the tall reeds that fringe their tide. 

Floats graceful on her way. 

The condor, where the Andes tower. 
Spreads his broad wing of pride and power, 

And many a storm defies ; 
Bright in the orient realms of morn, 
All beauty's richest hues adorn 

The Bird of Paradise. 

Some, amidst India's groves of palm, 
And spicy forests breathing balm. 



'The Italians call all singing birds, Birds of tli£ gentle 
bealc. 



Weave soft their pendent nest ; 
Some, deep in western wilds, display 
Their fairy form and plumage gay, 

In rainbow colours drest. 

Others no varied song may pour. 
May boast no eagle-plume to soar, 

No tints of light may wear ; 
Yet, know, our Heavenly Father guides 
The least of these, and well provides 

For each, with tenderest care. 

Shall He not then thy guardian be? 
Will not his aid extend to thee 7 

Oh ! safely may'st thou rest ! 
Trust in his love, and e'en should pain, 
Should sorrow tempt thee to complain. 

Know, what He wills is best ! 



THE SKY LARK. 

The Sky-lark, when the dews of morn 
Hang tremulous on flower and thorn, 
And violets round his nest exhale 
Their fragrance on the early gale. 
To the first sunbeam spreads his wings. 
Buoyant with joy, and soars, and sings. 

He rests not on the leafy spray. 
To warble his exulting lay. 
But high above the morning cloud 
Mounts in triumphant freedom proud. 
And swells, when nearest to the sky, 
His notes of sweetest ccstacy. 

Thus, my Creator ! thus the more 
My spirit's wing to Thee can soar, 
The more she triumphs to behold 
Thy love in all th}' works unfold. 
And bids her hymns of rapture be 
Most glad, when rising most to Thee, 



THE NIGHTINGALE. 

When twilight's gray and pensive hour 
Brings the low breeze, and shuts the flower, 
And bids the solitary star 
Shine in pale beauty from afar ; 

When gathering shades the landscape veil. 
And peasants seek their village-dale, 
And mists from river-wave arise. 
And dew in every blossom lies ; 

When evening's primrose opes, to shed 
Soft fragrance round her grassy bed ; 
When glow-worms in the wood-walk light 
Their lamp, to cheer the traveller's sight; 



352 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



At that calm hour, so still, so pale. 
Awakes the lonely nightingale ; 
And from a hermitage of shade 
Fills with her voice the forest-glade. 

And sweeter far that melting voice. 
Than all which through the day rejoice ; 
And still shall bard and wanderer love 
The twilight music of the grove. 

Father in Heaven ! oh ! thus, when day 
With all its cares hath passed away. 
And silent hours waft peace on earth, 
And hush the louder strains of mirth ; 

Thus may sweet songs of praise and prayer 
To Thee my spirit's offering bear; 
Yon star, my signal, set on high. 
For vesper-hyrnns of piety. 

So may thy mercy and thy power 
Protect me through the midnight hour ; 
And balmy sleep and visions blest 
Smile on thy servant's bed of rest. 



THE NORTHERN SPRING. 

When the soft breath of Spring goes forth 
Far o'er the mountains of the North, 
How soon those wastes of dazzling snow 
With life, and bloom, and beauty glow. 

Then bursts the verdure of the plains, 
Then break the streams from icy chains ; 
And the glad rein-deer seeks no more 
Amidst deep snows his mossy store. 

Then the dark pine-wood's boughs are seen 
Arrayed in tints of living green ; 
And roses, in their brightest dyes. 
By Lapland's founts and lakes arise. 

Thus, in a moment, from the gloom 
And the cold fetters of the tomb. 
Thus shall the blest Redeemer's voice 
Call forth his servants to rejoice. 

For He, whose word is truth, hath said. 
His power to life shall wake the dead. 
And summon those he loves, on high, 
To " put on immortality !" 

Then, all its transient sufferings o'gr. 
On wings of light the soul shall soar, 
Exulting., to that blest abode. 
Where tears of sorrow never flowed. 



PARAPHRASE OP PSALM CXLVIII. 



Praise ye the Lord. Praise ye the Lord from the heavens : 
praise him in the heights. 

Praise ye the Lord ! on every height 

Songs to his glory raise ! 
Ye angel-hosts, ye stars of light^ 

Join in immortal praise ! 

Oh ! heaven of heavens ! let praise far-swelling 

From all your orbs be sent ! 
Join in the strain, ye waters, dwelling 

Above the firmament ! 

For His the word which gave you birth, 

And majesty and might ; 
Praise to the Highest from the earth, 

And let the deeps unite ! 

Oh! fire and vapour, hail and snow, 

Ye servants of His will ; 
Oh! stormy winds, that only blow 

His mandates to fulfil ; 

Mountains and rocks, to heaven that rise ; 

Fair cedars of the wood; 
Creatures of life, that wing the skies, 

Or track the plains for food ; 

Judges of nation?; kings, whose hand 

Waves the proud sceptre high ; 
Oh ! youths and virgins of the land, 

Oh! age and infancy; 

Praise ye His name, to whom alone 

All homage should be given ; 
Whose glory from th' eternal throne 

Spreads wide o'er earth and heaven ! 



TO ONE OF THE AUTHOR'S CHIL- 
DREN 

ON HIS BIRTH DAY, AUGUST 27, 1825. 

Thou wak'st from happy sleep to play 

With bounding heart, my boy ! 
Before thee lies a long bright day 

Of summer and of joy. 

Thou hast no heavy thought or dream 

To cloud thy fearless eye; — 
Long be it thus — life's early stream 

Should still reflect the sky. 

Yet ere the cares of life lie dim 

On thy young spirit's wings. 
Now in thy morn forget not Him 

From whom each pure thought springs ! 



TRANSLATIONS FROM CAMOENS AND OTHER POETS. 



253 



So m the onward vale of tears, 
Where'er thy path may be, 

When strength hath bowed to evil years- 
He will remember thee. 



TO A YOUNGER CHILD 

ON A SIMILAR OCCASION, SEPTEMBER 17, 1825. 

Where sucks the bee now"? — Summer is flying! 
Leaves on the grass-plot faded are lying: 



Violets are gone from the grassy dell. 
With the cowslip-cups, where the faries dwell; 
The rose from the garden hath passed away — 
Yet happy, fair -boy! is thy natal day. 

For love bids it welcome, the love which hath smiled 
Ever around thee, my gentle child ! 
Watcliing thy footsteps, and guarding thy bed, 
And pouring out joy on thy sunny head 
Roses may vanish, but this will stay — 
Happy and bright is thy natal day. 



Kvun^l^ctmxti ivonx €^amotnn mi^ ottitv ^ott&. 



Siamo nati veramente in un secolo in cui gl' in 
gegni e gli studj degli uomini sono rivolti all' uti- 
lita. L'Agricoltura, le Arti, il Commercio acquis 
tano tuttodi novi lumi dalle ricerche de' Saggi ; i 
il voler farsi un nome tentando di dilettare, quand 
altri v' aspira con piu giustizia giovando, sembra 
impresa dura e difficile. — Savioli. 

CAMOENS. 

SONNET 70. 
Na metade do Ceo subido ardia. 
High in the glowing heavens, with cloudless beam. 
The sun had reached the zenith of his reign. 
And for the living fount, the gelid stream. 
Each flock forsook the herbage of the plain : 

'Midst the dark foliage of the forest-shade, 
The birds had sheltered from the scorching ray; 
Hushed were their melodies — and grove and glade 
Resounded but the shrill cicada's lay: 

When through the glassy vale a love-lorn swain. 
To seek the maid who but despised his pain. 
Breathing vain sighs of fruitless passion roved : 
"Why pine for her," the slighted wanderer cried, 
" By whom thou art not loved 1" — and thus replied 
An echo's murmuring voice — " Thou art not 
loved!" 



SONNET 283. 

From Psalm CXXXVII. 

Na ribeira do Euprates assentado. 

Wrapt in sad musings by Euphrates' stream 
I sat, retracing days for ever flown, 
While rose thine image on the exile's dream, 
O much-loved Salem ! an<l thy glories gone. 
2(i 



When they, who caused the ceaseless tears I shed, 
Thus to their captive spoke, — " Why sleep thy laysl 
Sing of thy treasures lost, thy splendour fled, 
And all thy triumphs in departed days ! 

" Know'st thou not, Harmony's resistless charm 
Can sooth each passion, and each grief disarml 
Sing then, and tears will vanish from thine eye." 
With sighs I answered, — ■' When the cup of wo 
Is filled, till misery's bitter draught o'erflow, 
The mourner's cure is not to sing, — but die." 



CAMOENS. 

PART OF ECLOGUE 15. 

Se Ik no aaeento da maior alteza. 
If in thy glorious home above 
Thou still recallest earthly love, 
If yet retained a thought may be 
Of him whose heart hath bled for thee ; 

Remember still how deeply shrined 
Thine image in his joyless mind. 
Each well-known scene, each former care. 
Forgotten — thou alone art there ! 

Remember that thine eye-beam's light 
Hath fled for ever from his sight, 
And, with that vanislied sunshine, lost 
Is every hope he cherished most. 

Think that his life, from thee apart. 
Is all but weariness of heart, 
Each stream, whose music once was dear. 
Now murmurs discords to his ear. 

Through thee, the morn, whose cloudless rays 
Woke him to joy in other days. 
Now, in the light of beauty drest. 
Brings but new sorrows to his breast. 



254 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



Through thee, the heavens are dark to him, 
The sun's meridian blaze is dim ; 
And harsh were e'en the bird of eve, 
But that her song still loves to grieve. 

All it hath been, his heart forgets, 
So altered by its long regrets ; 
Each wish is changed, each hope is o'er, 
And joy's light spirit wakes no more. 



CAMOENS. 

SONNET 271. 

A formosura desta fresca serra. 

This mountain-scene, with sylvan grandeur 

crowned ; 
These chesnut- woods, in summer verdure bright : 
These founts and rivulets, whose mingUng sound 
Lulls every bosom to serene delight ; 

Soft on these hills the sun's declining ray; 

This clime, where all is new ; these murmuring 

seas; 
Flocks to the fold that bend their lingering way; 
Light clouds contending with the genial breeze ; 

And all that Nature's lavish hands dispense, 
In gay luxuriance, charming every sense, 
Ne'er, in thy absence, can deUght my breast : 
Nought, without thee, my weary soul beguiles ; 
And joy may beam, yet, 'midst her brightest smiles, 
A secret grief is mine that will not rest. 



CAMOENS. 

SONNET 186. 
Os olhos onde o castro Amor ardia. 
Thosk eyes, whence Love diffused his purest light. 
Proud in such beaming orbs his reign to show ; 
That face, with tints of mingling lustre bright. 
Where the rose mantled o'er the living snow ; 

The rich redundance of that golden hair, 
Brighter than sunbeams of meridian day ; 
That form so graceful, and that hand so fair, 
Where now those treasures 1 — mouldering into 
clay! 

Thus, like some blossom prematurely torn. 
Hath young Perfection withered in its morn. 
Touched by the hand that gathers but to blight ! 
Oh! how could Love survive his bitter tears'? 
Shed, not for her, who mounts to happier spheres. 
But for his own sad fate, thus wrapt in starless 
night ! 



CAMOENS. 

SONNET 108. 
Brandas aguas do Tejo que passando. 
Fair Tajo! thoU, whose calmly-flowing tide 
Bathes the fresh verdure of these lovely plains, 
Enlivening all where'er thy waves may glide. 
Flowers, herbage, flocks, and sylvan nymphs, and 
swains: 

Sweet stream ! I know not when my steps again 
Shall tread thy shores ; and while to part I mourn, 
I have no hope to meliorate my pain. 
No dream that whispers — 1 may yet return ! 

My frowning destiny, whose watchful care 
Forbids me blessings, and ordains despair, 
Commands me thus to leave thee and repine : 
And I must vainly mourn the scenes I fly. 
And breathe on other gales my plaintive sigh, 
And blend my tears with other waves than thine ! 



CAMOENS. 

SONNET 23. 
TO A LADY WHO DIED AT SEA. 

Chara minha inimiga, em cujamao. 
Thou, to whose power my hopes, my joys, I give, 
O fondly loved ! my bosom's dearest care ! 
Earth, which denied to lend thy form a grave, 
Yields not one spell to soothe my deep despair ! 

Yes ! the wild seas entomb those charms divine, 
Dark o'er thy head th' eternal billows roll ; 
But while one ray of life or thought is mine. 
Still shalt thou live, the inmate of my soul. 

And if the tones of my uncultured song 

Have power the sad remembrance to prolong. 

Of love so ardent, and of faith so pure; 

Still shall my verse thine epitaph remain. 

Still shall thy charms be deathless in my strain. 

While Time, and Love, and Memory shall endure. 



CAMOENS. 

SONNET 19. 

Alma minha gentil, que le partiste. 
Spirit beloved! whose wing so soon hath flown 
The joyless precincts of this earthly sphere, 
Now is yon heaven eternally thine own. 
Whilst i deplore thy loss, a captive here. 

Oh ! if allowed in thy divine abode 
Of aught on earth an image to retain. 
Remember still the fervent love which glowed 
In my fond bosom, pure from every stain. 



TRANSLATIONS FROM CAMOENS AND OTHER POETS. 



255 



And if thou deem that all my faithful grief, 
Caused by thy loss, and hopeless of relief, 
Can merit thee, sweet native of the skies! 
Oh ! ask of Heaven, which called thee soon away, 
That I may join thee in those realms of day. 
Swiftly, as thou hast vanished from mine eyes. 



CAMOENS. 



Que eetranho caso de amor ! 

How strange a fate in love is mine ! 
How dearly prized the pains I feel ! 
Pangs that to rend my soul combine. 

With avarice I conceal : 
For did the world the tale divine, 
My lot would then be deeper wo. 
And mine is grief that none must know. 

To mortal ears I may not dare 
Unfold the cause, the pain I prove ; 
'T would plunge in ruin and despair 
Or me, or her I love. 
My soul delights alone to bear 
Her silent, unsuspected wo, 
And none shall pity, none shall know. 

Thus buried in my bosom's urn, 
Thus in my inmost heart concealed, 
Let me alone the secret mourn, 
In pangs unsoothed and unrevealed. 
For whether happiness or wo. 
Or life or death its power bestow, 
It is what none on earth must know. 



CAMOENS. 



SONNET 58. 



Se as penas com que Amor tao mal me trata. 

Should Love, the tyrant of my suffering heart, 
Yet long enough protract his votary's days. 
To see the lustre from those eyes depart. 
The lode-stars now,* that fascinate my gaze ; 

To see rude Time the living roses blight. 
That o'er thy cheek their loveliness unfold, 
And all unpitying, change thy tresses bright 
To silvery whiteness, from their native gold ; 

Oh! then my heart an equal change will prove. 
And mourn the coldness that repelled my love. 
When tears and penitence will all be vain ; 
And I shall see thee weep for days gone by, 
And in thy deep regret and fruitless sigh, 
Find amplest vengeance for my former pain. 



" Your eyes are lode-slars." — Shakspeare. 



CAMOENS. 

SONNET 178. 
J& cantei, ja ehorei a dura guerra. 

Oft have I sung and mourned the bitter woes, 
Which love for years hath mingled with my fate, 
While he the tale forbade me to disclose. 
That taught his votaries their deluded state. 

Nymphs! who dispense Castalia's living stream, 
Ye, who from Death oblivion's mantle steal, 
Grant me a strain in powerful tone supreme, 
Each grief by love inflicted to reveal : 

That those, whose ardent hearts adore his sway, 
May hear experience breathe a warning lay, 
How false his smiles, his promises how vain! 
Then, if ye deign this effort to inspire. 
When the sad task is o'er, my plaintive lyre. 
Forever hushed, shall slumber in your fane. 



CAMOENS. 

SONNET 80. 

Como quando do mar tempestuoeo. 

Saved from the perils of the stormy wave, 
And faint with toil, the wanderer of the main, 
But just escaped from shipwreck's billowy grave, 
Trembles to hear its horrors named again. 

How warm his vow, that Ocean's fairest mion 
No more shall lure him from the smiles of home 
Yet soon, forgetting each terrific scene, 
Once more he turns, o'er boundless deeps to roam. 

Lady ! thus I, who vainly oft in flight 

Seek refuge from the dangers of thy sight, 

Make the firm vow, to siiun thee and be free: 

But my fond heart, devoted to its chain, 

Still draws me back where countless perils reign. 

And grief and ruin spread their snares for me. 



CAMOENS. 

SONNET 239. 

From Psalm CXXXVH. 

Em Babylonia sobre os rios, quando. 

Beside the streams of Babylon, in tears 
Of vain desire, we sat ; remembering thee, 
O hallowed Sion ! and the vanished years, 
When Israel's chosen sons were blest and free : 

Our harps, neglected and untuned, we hung 
Mute on the willows of the stranger's land ; 
When songs, like those that in thy fanes we sung, 
Our foes demanded from their captive-band. 



356 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



How shall our voices, on a foreign shore, 

(We answered those whose chains the exile wore,) 

The songs of God, our sacred songs, renew ? 

If I forget, midst grief and wasting toil, 

Thee, O Jerusalem ! my native soil ! 

May my t ight-hand forget its cunning too! 



CAMOENS. 

SONNET 128. • 
Huma admiravel herva se conhece. 
There blooms a plant, whose gaze, from hour to 

hour, 
Still to the sun with fond devotion turns. 
Wakes, when Creation hails his dawning power, 
And most expands, when most her idol burns; 

But when he seeks the bosom of the deep, 
His faithful plant's reflected charms decay ; 
Then fade her flowers, her leaves discoloured weep. 
Still fondly pining for the vanished ray. 

Thou whom I love, the daystar of my sight ! 
When thy dear presence wakes me to delight, 
Joy in my soul unfolds her fairest flower : 
But in thy heaven of smiles alone it blooms. 
And of their light deprived, in grief consumes, 
Bom but to live within thine eye-beams power. 



CAMOENS. 
Polo meu apartamento. 

Amidst the bitter tears that fell 

In anguish at ray last farewell, 

Oh ! who would dream that joy could dwell, 

To make that moment bright 1 
Yet be my judge, each heart ! and say. 
Which then could most my bosom sway. 

Affliction, or delight '? 

It was, when Hope, opprest with woes, 
Seemed her dim eyes in death to close. 
That Rapture's brightest beam arose 

In Sorrow's darkest night. 
Thus, if my soul survive that hour, 
'T is that my fate o'ercame the power 

Of anguish with delight. 

For oh ! her love, so long unknown. 
She then confest, was all my own, 
And in that parting hour alone 

Revealed it to my sight. 
And now what pangs will rend my soul, 
Should fortune still, with stern control, 

Forbid me this delight. 

I know not if my bliss were vain. 
For all the force of parting pain 
Forbade suspicious doubts to reign, 
When exiled from her sight : 



Yet now what double wo for me, 
Just at the close of eve, to see 

The dayspring of delight. 



CAMOENS. 

SONNET 205. 

Quern diz que Amor he falso, o enganoeo. 

He who proclaims that Love is light and vain, 
Capricious, cruel, false in all his ways ; 
Ah ! sure too well hath merited his pain, 
Too justly finds him all he thus portrays. 

For Love is pitying. Love is soft and kind ; 
Believe not him who dares the tale oppose ; 
Oh ! deem him one whom stormy passions blind, 
One to whom earth and heaven may well be foes. 

If Love bring evils, view them all in me ! 
Here let the world his utmost rigour see, 
His utmost power exerted to annoy: 
But all his ire is still the ire of Love; 
And such delight in all his woes I prove, 
I would not change their pangs for aught of other 
joy! 



CAMOENS, 

SONNET 133. 

Doces, e Claras aguas do Mondego. 
Waves of Mondego ! brilliant and serene. 
Haunts of my thought, where memory fondly 

strays ; 
Where hope allured me with perfidious mien, 
Witching my soul, in long-departed days ; 

Yes ! I forsake your banks ; but still my heart 
Shall bid remembrance all your charms restore, 
And, sufl!ering not one image to depart, 
Find lengthening distance but endear you more. 

Let fortune's will, through many a future day, 
To distant realms this mortal frame convey, 
Sport of each wind, and tost on every wave ! 
Yet my fond soul, to pensive memory true. 
On thought's light passion still shall fly to you. 
And still, bright waters ! in your current lave. 



SONNET 181. 
Onde acharei lugar tao apaitado. 
Where shall I find some desert-scene so rude. 
Where loneliness so undisturbed may reign, 
That not a step shall ever there intrude 
Of roving man, or nature's savage train 1 



TRANSLATIcUrS FROM CAMOENS AND OTHER POETS. 



357 



Some tangled thicket, desolate and drear, 
Or deep wild forest, silent as the tomb, 
Boasting no verdure bright, no fountain clear, 
But darkly suited to my spirit's gloom'? 

That there, 'midst frowning rocks, alone with grief 
Entombed in life, and hopeless of relief 
In lonely freedom I may breathe my woes — 
For oh ! since nought my sorrows can allay. 
There shall my sadness cloud no festal day, 
And days of gloom shall soothe me to repose. 



CAMOENS. 

SONNET 278. 

Eu vivia de lagrimas isento. 

Exempt from every grief, 'twas mine to live 
In dreams so sweet, enchantments so divine, 
A thousand joys propitious Love can give, 
Were scarcely worth one rapturous pain of mine. 

Bound by soft spells, in dear illusions blest, 
I breathed no sigh for fortune or for power ; 
No care intruding to disturb my breast, 
I dwelt entranced in Love's Elysian bower: 

But Fate, such transports eager to destroy. 
Soon rudely woke me from the dream of joy. 
And bade the phantoms of delight begone ! 
Bade hope and happiness at once depart, 
And left but memory to distract my heart. 
Retracing every hour of bliss for ever flown. 



CAMOENS. 
Mi nueve y dulce querella, 
*No searching eye can pierce the veil 
That o'er my secret love is thrown ; 
No outward signs reveal its tale, 

But to my bosom known. 
Thus, like the spark, whose vivid light. 
In the dark flint is hid from sight, 
It dwells within, alone. 



METASTASIO. 
Dunque si sfoga in pianto. 

In tears, the heart opprest with grief 

Gives language to its woes; 
In tears, its fulness finds relief. 

When ra[)ture's tide o'erflows ! 
Who then unclouded bliss would seek 

On this terrestrial sphere ; 
When e'en Delight can only speak. 

Like Sorrow — in a tearl 



VINCENZIO DA FILICAJA. 
Italia, Italia ! O tu cui feo la sorte. 
Italia! thou, by lavish Nature graced 
With ill-starred beauty, wliich to thee hath been 
A fatal dowry, whose effects are traced 
In the deep sorrows graven on thy mien ; 

Oh! that more strength, or fewer charms were 

thine. 
That those might fear thee more, or love thee less, 
Who seem to worship at thy beauty's shrine. 
Then leave thee to the death-pang's bitterness! 

Not t!ien the herds of Gaul would drain the tide 
Of that Eridanus thy blond hath dyed; 
Nor from tlie Alps would legions, still renewed, 
Pour down; nor wouldst thou wield a foreign 

brand. 
Nor figlit thy battles with the stranger's hand, 
Still doomed to serve, subduing or subdued I 



pastorini. 
Geneva mia, se con asciutto ciglia 
If thus thy fallen grandeur I behold, 
My native Genoa ! with a tearless eye. 
Think not thy son's ungrateful heart is cold, 
But know — I deem rebellious every sigh ! 

Thy glorious ruins proudly I survey, 
Trophies of firm resolve, of patriot might ! 
And in each trace of devastation's way 
Thy worth, thy courage, meet my wandering sight. 

Triumphs far less than suffering virtue shine! 
And on the spoilers high revenge is thine, 
While thy strong spirit unsubdued remains. 
And lo! fair Liberty rejoicing flies, 
To kiss each noble relic, while she cries, 
■Hail! though in ruins, thou wert ne'er in 
chains !" 



LOPF. DE VEGA. 

Estese el cortesano. 

Let the vain courtier waste his days, 
Lured by the charms that wealth displays, 

The couch of down, the beard of costly fare; 
Be his to kiss tii' ungrateful hand, 
That waves the sceptre of command, 

And rear full many a palace in the air; 
Whilst I enjoy, all unconfined, 
The glowing sun, the genial wind, 

And tranquil hours, to rustic toil assigned; 
And prize far more, in peace and health, 

Contented indigence, than joyless wealth. 



258 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. # 



Not mine in Fortune's face to bend, 

At Grandeur's altar to attend, 
Reflect his smile, and tremble at his frown ; 

Nor mine a fond aspiring thought, 

A wish, a sigh, a vision, fraught 
With Fame's bright phantom, Glory's deathless 
crown ! 

Nectareous draughts and viands pure, 

Luxuriant nature will ensure ; 

These the clear fount, and fertile field, 

Still to the wearied shepherd yield ; 

And when repose and visions reign. 
Then we are equals all, the monarch and the 



FRANCISCO MANUEL. 

ON ASCENDING A HILL LEADING TO 
A CONVENT. 

No baxes temeroso, o peregrino. 

Pause not with Hngering foot, O pilgrim, here; 
Pierce the deep shadows of the mountain-side ; 
Firm be thy step, thy heart unknown to fear, 
To brighter worlds this thorny path will guide. 

Soon shall thy feet approach the calm abode, 
So near the mansions of supreme delight; 
Pause not — but tread this consecrated road, 
'T is the dark basis of the heavenly height. 

Behold, to cheer thee on the toilsome way, 
How many a fountain glitters down the hill ! 
Pure gales, inviting, softly round thee play, 
Bright sunshine guides — and wilt thou linger 

still? 
Oh ! enter there, where, freed from human strife, 
Hope is reality, and time is life. 



DELLA CASA. 

VENICE. 



Quest! palazzi, e queste logge or colte. 

These marble domes, by wealth and genius graced 
With sculptured forms, bright hues, and Parian 

stone, 
Were once rude cabins 'midst a lonely waste, 
Wild shores of solitude, and isles unknown. 

Pure from each vice, 't was here a virtuous train, 
Fearless in fragile barks explored the sea ; 
Not theirs a wish to conquer or to reign, 
They sought these island-precincts — to be free. 

Ne'er in their souls ambition's flame arose. 
No dream of avarice broke their calm repose; 
Fraud, more than death abhorred each artless 
breast; 



Oh ! now, since Fortune gilds their brightening 

day. 
Let not those virtues languish and decay, 
O'erwhelmed by luxury, and by wealth opprest ! 



IL MARCHESE CORNELIO BENTIVOQLIO. 
L'anima bella, che dal vero Eliso. 
The sainted spirit, which from bliss on high 
Descends like dayspring to my favoured sight 
Shines in such noontide radiance of the sk)'', 
Scarce do I know that form, intensely bright! 

But with the sweetness of her well-known smile, 
That smile of peace! she bids my doubts depart, 
And takes my hand, and softly speaks the while, 
And heaven's full glory pictures to my heart. 

Beams of that heaven in her my eyes behold. 
And now, e'en now, in thought my wings unfold 
To soar with her and mingle with the blest ! 
But ah ! so swift her buoyant pinion flies, 
That I, in vain aspiring to the skies, 
Fall to my native sphere by earthly bonds deprest. 



metastasio. 



Al furor d'avversa sorte. 

He shall not dread Misfortune's angry mien, 
Nor feebly sink beneath her tempest rude. 
Whose soul hath learned, through many a trying 

scene, 
To smile at fate, and suffer unsubdued. 

In the rough school of billows, clouds, and storms, 
Nursed and matured, the pilot learns his art: 
Thus Fate's dread ire, by many a conflict forms 
The lofty spirit and enduring heart ! 



metastasio. 



Quella onda che ruina. 
The torrent-wave, that breaks with force 
Impetuous down the Alpine height. 
Complains and struggles in its course, 
But sparkles, as the diamond bright. 

The stream in shadowy valley deep 
May slumber in its narrow bed; 
But silent in unbroken sleep. 
Its lustre and its life are fled. 



METASTASIO. 

Leggiadra rosa, le cui pure foglie. 
Sweet rose! whose tender foliage to expand, 
Her fostering dews the morning Ughtly shed. 
Whilst gales of balmly breath thy blossoms fanned, 
And o'er thy leaves the soft suliusion spread ; 



TRANSLATIONS FROM CAMOENS AND OTHER POETS. 



259 



That hand whose care witiidrew thee from the 

ground, 
To brighter worlds thy favoured charms hath 

borne ; 
Thy fairest buds, with grace perennial crowned, 
There breathe and bloom, released from every 

thorn. 

Thus, far removed, and now, transplanted flower! 
Exposed no more to blast or tempest rude, 
Sheltered with tenderest care from frost or shower, 
And each rough season's chill vicissitude. 
Now may thy form in bovvers of peace assume 
Immortal fragrance, and unwithering bloom. 



METASTASIO. 

Che speri, instabil Dea, di sassi e spine. 
Fortune ! why thus, where'er my footsteps tread, 
Obstruct each path with thorns and rocks like 

these 1 
Think'st thou that / thy threatening mien shall 

dread. 
Or toil and pant thy waving locks to seize? 

Reserve the frown severe, the menace rude. 
For vassal-spirits that confess thy sway ! 
My constant soul could triumph unsubdued, 
Were the wide universe destruction's prey. 

Am I to conflicts new, in toils untried; 
No! I have long thine utmost power defied. 
And drawn fresh energies from every figlit. 
Thus from rude strokes of hammers and the wheel, 
With each successive shock the tempered steel 
More keenly piercing proves, more dazzling bright. 



METASTASIO. 
Parlagli d' un periglio. 
WouLDST thou to Love of danger speak?- 
Veiled are his eyes, to perils blind ! 
Wouldst thou from Love a reason seek? — 
He is a child of wayward mind 1 

But with a doubt, a jealous fear, 
Inspire him once — the task is o'er ; 
His mind is keen, his sight is clear, 
No more an infant, blind no more. 



METASTASIO. 

Sprezza il furor del vento. 

Unbending 'midst the wintry skies, 

Rears the firm oak his vigorous form, 

And stern in rugged strength, defies 

The rushing of the storm ; 



Then severed fiom his native shore, 
O'er ocean-worlds the sail to bear. 
Still with those winds he braved before. 
He proudly struggles there. 



METASTASIO. 
Sol p>i6 dir che sia contento. 
Oh ! those alone, whose severed hearts 
Have mourned through lingering years in vain, 
Can tell what bliss fond love imparts, 
When Fate unites them once again : 

Sweet is the sigh, and blest the tear. 
Whose language hails that moment bright, 
When past afl[lictions but endear 
The presence of delight! 



METASTASIO. 
Ah ! frenate '1 pianto imbelle. 
Ah ! cease — those fruitless tears restrain, 
1 go misfortune to defy. 
To smile at fate with proud disdain. 
To triumph — not to die ! 

I with fresh laurels go to crown 
My closing days at last, 
Securing all the bright renown 
Acquired in dangers past. 



aUEVEDO. 

ROME BURIED IN HER OWN RUINS. 

Buscas en Roma 4 Rom.i, 6 peregrine ! 

Amidst these scenes, O pilgrim ! seek'st thou 

Rome? 
Vain is thy search — the pomp of Rome is fled; 
Her silent Aventine is glory's tomb ; 
Her walls, her shrines, but relics of the dead. 

That hill where Caesars dwelt in other days 
Forsaken mourns, where once it towered eub- 

lime; 
Each mouldering medal now far less displays 
The triumjihs won by Latinm, than by '^rtine. 

Tiber alone survives — the passing wave, 

That batlied her towers, now murmurs by her 

grave, 
Wailing, with plaintive sounds, her fallen fanes. 
Rome! of thine ancient grandeur all is past, 
That seemed for years ctcrnrd framed to last, 
Nought but the wave, a fugitive — remains. 



260 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



EL CONDE JUAN DE TARSIS. 

Tu, que la dulce vida en tiernos anos. 
Thou, who hast fled from life's enchanted bowers, 
In youth's gay spring, in beauty's glowing morn, 
Leaving thy bright array, thy path of flowers. 
For the rude convent-garb, and couch of thorn ; 

Thou that, escaping from a world of cares, 
Hast foutid thy haven in devotion's fane, 
As to the port the fearful bark repairs. 
To shun the midnight perils of the main; 

Now the glad hymn, the strain of rapture pour. 
While on thy soul the beams of glory rise ! 
For if the pilot hail the welcome shore. 
With shouts of triumph swelling to the skies; 
Oh ! how shouldst thou the exulting pajan raise, 
Now heaven's bright harbour opens on thy gaze. 



TORaUATO TASSO. 

Negli anni acerbi tuoi, purpurea rosa. 
Thou in thy morn wert like a glowing rose, 
To the mild sunshine only half displayed. 
That shunned its bashful graces to disclose. 
And in its vale of verdure sought a shade; 

Or like Aurora did thy charms appear, 

(Since mortal form ne'er vied with aught so bright,) 

Aurora, smiling from her tranquil sphere, 

O'er vale and mountain shedding dew and light; 

Now riper years have doomed no grace to fade. 
Nor youthful charms, in all their pride arrayed, 
Excel, or equal thy neglected form. 
Thus, full expanded, lovelier is the flower. 
And the bright day-star, in its noontide hour. 
More brilUant shines, in genial radiance warm. 



BERNARDO TASSO. 

Quest' ombra che giaramai non vide il sole. 
This green recess, where through the bowery 

gloom 
Ne'er e'en at noontide hours the sunbeam played, 
Where violet beds in soft luxuriance bloom, 
'Midst the cool freshness of the myrtle-shade ; 

Where through the grass a sparkling fountain 

steals, 
Whose murmuring wave, transparent as it flows, 
No more its bed of yellow sand conceals, 
Than the pure crystal hides the glowing rose ; 

This bower of peace, thou soother of our care, 
God of soft slumbers, and of visions fair ! 
A lowly shepherd consecrates to thee ! 



Then breathe around some spell of deep repose, 
And charm his eyes in balmy dew to close. 
Those eyes, fatigued with grief, from tear-drops 
never free. 



PETRARCH. 

Ohi vuol veder quantunque puo natura. 
Thou that wouldst mark, in form of human birth, 
All heaven and nature's perfect skill combined, 
Come gaze on her, the day-star of the earth, 
Dazzling not me alone, but all mankind : 

And haste ! for death, who spares the guilty long. 
First calls the brightest and the best away ; 
And to her home, amidst the cherub-throng 
The angelic mortal flies, and will not stay ! 

Haste ! and each outward charm, each mental 

grace. 
In one consummate form thine eye shall trace. 
Model of lovehness, for earth too fair ! 
Then thou shalt own, how faint my votive lays. 
My spirit dazzled by perfection's blaze — 
But if thou still delay, for long regret prepare. 



Se lamentar augelli, o verdi fronde. 
If to the sighing breeze of summer-hours 
Bend the green leaves ; if mourns a plaintive bird*, 
Or from some fount's cool margin, fringed with 

flowers, 
The soothing murmur of the wave is heard ; 

Her, whom the heavens reveal, the earth denies, 
I see and hear: though dweUing far above. 
Her spirit, still responsive to my sighs, 
Visits the lone retreat of pensive love. 

" Why thus in grief consume each fruitless day," 
(Her gentle accents thus divinely say,) 
" While from thine eyes the tear unceasing flows'? 
Weep not for me, who, hastening on my flight. 
Died, to be deathless; and on heavenly Ught 
Whose eyes but opened, when they seemed to 
close!'' 



VERSI SPAGNOOLI DI PIETRO BEMBO. 

O Muerte ! que sueles ser. 
Thou, the stern monarch of dismay ; 
Whom nature trembles to survey, 
Oh Death ! to me, the child of grief, 
Thy welcome power would bring reUef, 
Changing to peaceful slumber many a care. 
And though thy stroke may thrill with pain 
Each throbbing pulse, each quivering vein; 



TRANSLATIONS FROM CAMOENS AND OTHER POETS. 



261 



The pangs that bid existence close, 
Ah! sure are far less keen than those, 
Which cloud its lingering moments with despair. 



FRANCESCO LORENZINI. 
O Zefiretto, die movendo vai. 
Sylph of the breeze ! whose dewy pinions light 
"Wave gently round the tree I planted here, 
Sacred to her, whose soul hath winged its flight 
To the pure ether of her lofty sphere ; 

Be it thy care, soft spirit of the gale ! 
To fan its leaves in summer's noontide hour; 
Be it thy care, that wintry tempests fail 
To rend its honours from the sylvan bower. 

Then shall it spread, and rear th' aspiring form, 
Pride of the wood, secure from every storm. 
Graced with her name, a consecrated tree ! 
So may thy lord, the monarch of the wind. 
Ne'er with rude chains thy tender pinions bind. 
But grant thee still to rove, a wanderer wild and 
free ! 



GESSNER. 

MORNING SONG. 

Wilkommen, fruhe morgensonn. 

Hail! morning sun, thus early bright; 
Welcome, sweet dawn ! thou younger day ! 
Through the dark woods that fringe the height 
Beams forth, e'en now, thy ray. 

Bright on the dew, it sparkles clear, 
Bright on the water's glittering fall, 
And Ufe, and joy, and health appear. 
Sweet morning! at thy call. 

Now thy fresh breezes lightly spring 
From beds of fragrance, where they lay. 
And roving wild on dewy wing. 
Drive slumber far away. 

Fantastic dreams, in swift retreat. 
Now from each mind withdraw their spell, 
While the young loves delighted meet, 
On Rosa's cheek to dwell. 

Speed zephyr! kiss each opening flower, 
Its fragrant spirit make thine own ; 
Then wing thy way to Rosa's bower. 
Ere her light sleep is flown. 

There, o'er her downy pillow, fly. 
Wake the sweet maid to life and day ; 
Breathe on her balmy lip a sigh, 
And o'er her bosom play; 



And whisper, when her eyes unveil, 
That I, since morning's earliest call, 
Have sighed her name to every gale, 
By the lone waterfall. 



GERMAN SONG. 
Madchen, lernet Amor kennen. 
Listen, fair maid, my song shall tell 
How Love may still be known full well, 

His looks the traitor prove : 
Dost thou not see that absent smile, 
That fiery glance replete with guile "? 
Oh ! doubt not then — 't is Love. 

When varying still the sly disguise, 
Child of caprice, he laughs and cries. 

Or with complaint would move ; 
To day is bold, to-morrow shy. 
Changing each hour, he knows not why, 

Oh ! doubt not then — 't is Love. 

There's magic in his every wile, 
His lips, well practised to beguile. 

Breathe roses when they move ; 
See, now with sudden rage he burns, 
Disdains, implores, commands, by turns ; 

Oh ! doubt not then — 't is Love. 

He comes, without the bow and dart. 
That spare not e'en the purest heart ; 

His looks the traitor prove ; 
That glance is fire, that mien is guile, 
Deceit is lurking in that smile. 

Oh ! trust him not — 't is Love ! 



CHAULIEU. 
Grotte, d'ou sort se clair ruisseau. 
Thou grot, whence flows this limpid spring. 
Its margin fringed with moss and flowers. 
Still bid its voice of murmurs bring 
Peace to thy musing hours. 

Sweet Fontcnay! where first for me 
The day-spring of existence rose, 
Soon shall my dust return to thee, 
And 'midst my sires repose. 

Muses, that watched my childhood's morn, 
'Midst these wild haunts, with guardian eye, 
Fair trees, that here beheld me born. 
Soon shall ye see me die. 



GARCILASO DE LA VEGA. 

Coged de vuestra alegre primavera. 
Enjoy the sweets of life's luxuriant May, 
Ere envious Age is hastening on his way, 
With snowy wreaths to crown the beauteous brow 
The rose will fade when storms assail the year, 
And Time, who changeth not his swift career. 
Constant in this, will change all else below! 



262 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



THE TREASURES OF THE DEEP. 
What hid'st thou in thy treasure-caves and cells'? 
Thou hollow-sounding and mysterious main ! 
— Pale glistening pearls, and rainbow-coloured 

shells, 
Bright things which gleam unrecked-of, and in 

vain! 
— Keep, keep thy riches, melancholy sea ! 
We ask not such from thee. 

Yet more, the depths have more! — what wealth 

untold, 
Far down, and shining through their stillness lies! 
Thou hast the starry gems, the burning gold, 
Won from ten thousand royal Argosies ! 
— Sweep o'er thy spoils, thou wild and wrathful 

main! 

Earth claims not these again. 

Yet more, the depths have more ! thy waves have 

rolled 
Above the cities of a world gone by ! 
Sand hath filled up the palaces of old. 
Sea-weed o'ergrown the halls of revelry. 
— Dash o'er them, ocean! in thy scornful play! 

Man yields them to decay. 
Yet more! the billows and the depths have more ! 
High hearts and brave are gathered to thy breast ! 
They hear not now the booming waters roar. 
The battle-thunders will not break their rest. 
— Xeep thy red gold and gems, thou stormy grave ! 

Give back the true and brave ! 

Give back the lost and lovely ! — those for whom 
The place was kept at board and hearth so long. 
The prayer went up through midnight's breathless 

gloom, 
And the vain yearning woke 'midst festal song ! 
Hold fast thy buried isles, thy towers o'erthrown — 

But all is not thine own. 
To thee the love of woman hath gone down, 
Dark flow thy tides o'er manhood's noble head, 
O'er youth's bright locks, and beauty's flowery 

crown, 
— ^Yet must thou hear a voice — restore the dead ! 
Earth shall reclaim her precious things from thee ! 
— Restore the dead, thou sea! 



BRING FLOWERS. 
Bring flowers, young flowers, for the festal board, 
To wreathe the cup ere the wine is poured ; 
Bring flowers! they are springing in wood and 

vale, 
Their breath floats out on the southern gale. 



And the touch of the sunbeam hath waked the 

rose. 
To deck the hall where the bright wine flows. 

Bring flowers to strew in the conqueror's path — 
He hath shaken thrones with his stormy wrath I 
He comes with the spoils of nations back. 
The vines lie crushed in his chariot's track, 
The turf looks red where he won the day — 
Bring flowers to die in the conqueror's way ! 

Bring flowers to the captive's lonely cell. 
They have tales of the joyous woods to tell; 
Of the free blue streams, and the glowing sky 
And the bright world shut from his languid eye ; 
They will bear him a thought of the sunny hours, 
And a dream of his youth — bring him flowers, 
wild flowers ! 

Bring flowers, fresh flowers, for the bride to wear ! 
They were born to blush in her shining hair. 
She is leaving the home of her childhood's mirth! 
She hath bid farewell to her father's hearth. 
Her place is now by another's side — 
Bring flowers for the locks of the fair young bride! ,. 

Bring flowers, pale flowers, o'er the bier to shed, 

A crown for the brow of the early dead ! 

For this through its leaves hath the white-rose 

burst. 
For this in the woods was the violet nursed. 
Though they smile in vain for what once was ours, 
They are love's last gift — bring ye flowers, pale 

flowers ! 

Bring flowers to the shrine where we kneel in 

prayer. 
They are nature's oflTering, their place is there! 
They speak of hope to the fainting heart. 
With a voice of promise they come and part. 
They sleep in dust through the wintry hours. 
They break forth in glory — bring flowers, bright 

flowers! 



THE CRUSADER'S RETURN. 



"Alas! the mother that him bare, 
If she had been in presence there, 
In his wan cheeks and sunburnt hair. 

She had not known her child." 

Mar7nion. 

Rf.st, pilgrim, rest ! — thou 'rt from the Syrian land, 
Thou 'rt from the wild and wondrous east I know 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



263 



By the long-withered palm-branch in thy hand, 
And by the darkness of thy sunburnt brow. 
Alas! the bright, the beautiful, who part. 
So full of hope, for that far country's bourne ! 
Alas! the weary and the changed in heart, 
And dimmed in aspect, who like thee return ! 

Thou 'rt faint — stay, rest thee from thy toils at 

last. 
Through the high chesnuts lightly plays the 

breeze, 
The stars gleam out, the Ave hour is passed, 
The sailor's hymn hath died along the seas. 
Thou 'rt faint and worn — hear'st thou the foun- 
tain welling 
By the gray pillars of yon ruined shrine 1 
Seest thou the dewy grapes, before thee swelling 1 
— He that hath left me trained that loaded vine ! 

He was a child when thus the bower he wove, 
(Oh! hath a day fled since his cliildhood's time?) 
That I might sit and hear the sound I love, 
Beneath its shade — the convent "s vesper-chime. 
And sit thou there! — for he was gentle ever; 
With his glad voice he would have welcomed 

thee. 
And brought fresh fruits to cool thy parched lips' 

fever — 
— There in his place thou 'rt resting — where is he % 

If I could.ljear that laughing voice again, 

But once again! — how oft it wanders by. 

In the still hours, like some remembered strain, 

Troubling the heart with its wild melody ! 

■ — Thou hast seen much, tired pilgrim! hast thou 

seen 
In that far land, the chosen land of yore, 
A youth — my Guido — with the fiery mien, 
And the dark eye of this Italian shore 1 

The dark, cle'a^, lightning eye ! — on Heaven and 

earth 
It smiled — as if man were not dust — it smiled ! 
The very air seemed kindling with his mirth. 
And I — my heart grew young before my child ! 
My blessed child ! — I had but him — yet he 
Filled all my home e'en with o'erflowing joy, 
Sweet laughter, and wild song, and footstep free — 
— Where is he now 1 — my pride, my flower, my boy ! 

His sunny childhood melted from my sight, 
Like a spring dew-drop — then his forehead wore 
A prouder look — his eye a keener light — 
— I knew these woods might be his world no more 1 
He loved me — but he left me I — thus they go. 
Whom we have reared, watched, blessed, too much 

adored ! 
He heard the trumpet of the red-cross blow. 
And bounded from me with his father's sword ! 



Thou weep'st — I tremble — thouhast seen the slain 
Pressing a bloody turf; the young and fair, 
Willi their pale beauty strewing o'er the plain 
Where hosts have met — speak i answer ! — was he 

there 1 
Oh ! hath his smile departed 1 — Could the grave 
Shut o'er those bursts of bright and tameless glee? 
— No ! I shall yet behold his dark locks wave — 
That look gives hope — I knew it could not be I 

Still weep'st thou, wanderer? — some fond mother's 

glance 
O'er thee too brooded in thine earlj' years — 
Think'st thou of her, whose gentle eye, perchance, 
Bathed all thy faded hair with parting tears? 
Speak, for thy tears disturb me ! — what art thou 1 
Why dost thou hide tliy face, yet weeping on ? 
Look up ! — oh ! is it — that wan cheek and brow ! — 
Is it — alas ! yet joy I — my son, my son ! 



THEKLA'S SONG; OR, THE VOICE OP 
A SPIRIT. 

FROM THE GERMAN OF SCHILLER. 

Thi.9 Song is said to have been composed by Schiller in an- 
swer to the inquiries of his friends respecting the fate of 
Thekla, whose beautiful character is withdrawn from the 
tragedy of "Wallenstein's Death," after her resolution to vi- 
sit the grave of her lover is made known 

" 'Tis not merely 

Tlie human being's pride that peoples space 
With life and mystical predominance ; 
Since likewise for the stricken heart of love 
Tliis visible nature, and this common world, 
Axe all too naiTow." 

Coleridge's Trannlation of Wallensiein. 

Ask'.st thou my home 7 — my pathway wouldst 

thou know, 
When from tliine eye my floating shadow passed ? 
Was not my work fulfilled and closed below ? 
Had I not lived and loved? — my lot was cast. 

Wouldst thou ask where the nightingale is gone, 

That melting into song her soul away, 

Gave the spring-breeze what witched thee in its 

tone? 
— But while she loved, she lived, in that deep lay ! 

Think'st thou my heart its lost one hath not found? 
— Yes ! we are one, oh ! trust me, we have met. 
Where nought again may part what love hath bound, 
Where falls no tear, and whispers no regret. 

There shall thou find us, there with us be blest, 
If as our love thy love is pure and true ! 
There dwells my father,* sinless and at rest, 
Where the fierce murderer may no more pursue. 



Walleastcin. 



264 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



And well he feels, no error of the dust 
Drew to the stars of Heaven his mortal ken, 
There it is with us, e'en as is our trust, 
He that believes, is near the holy then. 

There shall each feeling beautiful and high, 
Keep the sweet promise of its earthly day; 
— Oh ! fear thou not to dream with waking eye ! 
There lies deep meaning oft in childish play. 



THE REVELLERS. 

Ring, joyous chords ! — ring out again ! 
A swifter still, and a wilder strain ! 
They are here — the fair face and the careless heart. 
And stars shall wane ere the mirthful part. 
— But I met a dimly mournful glance. 
In a sudden turn of the flying dance ; 
I heard the tone of heavy sigh, 
In a pause of the thrilling melody ! 
And it is not well that wo should breathe 
On the bright spring-flowers of the festal wreath ! 
■ — Ye that to thought or to grief belong, 
Leave, leave the hall of song ! 

Ring, joyous chords ! — but who art ihou 

With the shadowy locks o'er thy pale young brow, 

And the world of dreamy gloom that lies 

In the misty depths of thy soft dark eyes 1 

— Thou hast loved, fair girl ! thou hast loved too 

well! 
Thou art mourning now o'er a broken spell ; 
Thou hast poured thy heart's rich treasures forth, 
And art unrepaid for their priceless worth ! 
Mourn on ! — yet come thou not here the while, 
It is but a pain to see thee smile ! 
There is not a tone in our songs for thee — 
— Home with thy sorrows flee ! 

Ring, joyous chords ! — ring out again ! 
— But what dost thou with the Revel's train 1 
A silvery voice through the soft air floats, 
But thou hast no part in the gladdening notes ; 
There are bright young faces that pass thee by. 
But they fix no glance of thy wandering eye ! 
Away ! there's a void in thy yearning breast. 
Thou weary man ! wilt thou here find rest 1 
Away ! for thy thoughts from the scene have fled. 
And the love of thy spirit is with the dead ! 
Thou art but more lone 'midst the sounds of mirth — 
— Back to thy silent hearth ! 

Ring, joyous chords ! — ring forth again ! 

A swifter still, and a wilder strain ! 

— But thou, though a reckless mien be thine, 

And thy cup be crowned with the foaming wine, 

By the fitful bursts of thy laughter loud. 

By thine eye's quick flash through its troubled cloud , 



I know thee ! — it is but the wakeful fear 
Of a haunted bosom that brings thee here ! 
I know thee ! — thou fearest the solemn night. 
With her piercing stars and her deep wind's might ! 
There 's a tone in her voice which thou fain wouldst 

shun. 
For it asks what the secret soul hath done ! 
And thou — there's a dark weight on thine — away! 
— Back to thy home and pray! 

Ring, joyous chords! — ring out again! 

A swifter still, and a wilder strain ! 

And bring fresh wreaths I — we will banish all 

Save the free in heart from our festive hall. 

On through the maze of the fleet dance, on ! 

— But where are the young and the lovely 1 — 

gone! 
Where are the brows with the red rose crowned, 
And the floating forms with the bright zone bound? 
And the waving locks and the flying feet, 
That still should be where the mirthful meet ! 
— They are gone — they are fled — they are parted 

all— 

— Alas ! the forsaken hall ! 



THE CONaUEROR'S SLEEP. 

Sleep 'midst thy banners furled ! 
Yes I thou art there, upon thy buckler lying. 
With the soft wind unfelt around thee sighing. 
Thou chief of hosts, whose trumpet shakes the 

world I 
Sleep while the babe sleeps on its mother's breast — 
— Oh ! strong is night — for thou too art at rest ! 

Stillness hath smoothed thy brow, 
And now might love keep timid vigils by thee, 
Now might the foe with stealthy foot draw nigh 

thee, « . 

Alike unconscious and defenceless thou ! 
Tread lightly, watchers ! — now the field is won, 
Break not the rest of nature's weary son 1 

Perchance some lovely dream 
Back from thy stormy fight thy soul is bearing, 
To the green places of thy boyish daring, 
And all the windings of thy native stream ; 
— Why, this were joy I — upon the tented plain. 
Dream on, thou Conqueror I — be a child again! 

But thou wilt wake at morn. 
With thy strong passions to the conflict leaping, 
And thy dark troubled thoughts, all earth o'er- 

sweeping, 
— So wilt thou rise, oh ! thou of woman born ! 
And put thy terrors on, till none may dare 
Look upon thee — the tired one, slumbering there! 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



265 



Why, so the peasant sleeps 
Beneath his vine ! — and man must kneel before 

thee, 
And for his birthright vainly still implore thee! 
Shalt thou be stayed because thy brother weeps 1 
— Wake! and forget that 'midst a dreaming world. 
Thou hast lain thus, with all thy banners furled ! 

Forget that thou, e'en thou. 
Hast feebly shivered when the wind passed o'er 

thee, 
And sunk to rest upon the earth which bore thee, 
And felt the night-dew chill thy fevered brow ! 
Wake with the trumpet, with the spear press on ! 
— Yet shall the dust take home its mortal son. 



OUR LADY'S WELL* 

Fount of the woods ! thou art hid no more. 
From Heaven's clear eye, as in time of yore! 
For the roof hath sunk from thy mossy walls. 
And the sun's free glance on thy slumber falls ; 
And the dim tree-shadows across thee pass. 
As the boughs are swayed o'er thy silvery glass ; 
And the reddening leaves to thy breast are blown, 
When the autumn wind hath a stormy tone ; 
And thy hubbies rise to the flashing rain — 
Bright Fount ! thou art nature's own again ! 

Fount of the vale ! thou art sought no more 
By the pilgrim's foot, as in time of yore, 
When he came from afar, his beads to tell. 
And to chant his hymn at Our Lady's Well. 
There is heard no Ave through thy bowers. 
Thou art gleaming lone 'midst thy water-flowers! 
But the herd may drink from thy gushing wave. 
And there may the reaper his forehead lave, 
And the woodman seeks thee not in vain — 
— Bright Fount ! thou art nature's own again ! 

Fount of the Virgin's ruined shrine ! 

A voice that speaks of the past is thine ! 

It mingles the tone of a thoughtful sigh, 

With the notes that ring through the laughing 

sky; 
'Midst the mirthful song of the summer-bird, 
And the sound of the breeze, it will yet be heard ! 
— Why is it that thus we may gaze on thee. 
To the brilliant sunshine sparkling free 1 
— 'Tis that all on earth is of Time's domain — 
He hath made thee nature's own again ! 

Fount of the chapel with ages gray ! 
Thou art springing freshly amidst decay ! 



* A beautiful spring in the woods near St. A.saph, formerly 
covered in with a cliapcl, now in ruins. It was dedicate<l to 
the Virgin, ami, according to Pennant, much the resort of pil- 
grimg. 



Thy rites are closed, and thy cross lies low, 
And the changeful hours breathe o'er thee now ! 
Yet if at thine altar one holy thought 
In man's deep spirit of old hath wrought ; 
If peace to the mourner hath here been given, 
Or prayer, from a chastened heart, to Heaven, 
Be the spot still hallowed while Time shall reign. 
Who hath made thee nature's own again ! 



ELYSIUM. 



" In the Elysium of the ancients, we find none but heroes 
and persons who had either been fortunate or distinguished 
on earth; (he children, and apparently the slaves and lower 
classes, that is to say, Poverty, Misfortune, and Innocence, 
were banished to the infernal regions." 

Cliateaubriand, Genie du Christianiame. 



Fair wert thou, in the dreams 
Of elder time, thou land of glorious flowers, 
And summer-winds, and low-toned silvery streams, 
Dim with the shadows of thy laurel-bowers ! 

Where, as they passed, bright hours 
Left no ^aint sense of parting, such as clings 
To earthly love, and joy in loveliest things ! 

Fair wert thou, with the light 
On thy blue hills and sleepy waters cast, 
From purple skies ne'er deepening into night, 
Yet soft, as if each moment were their last 

Of glory, fading fast 
Along the mountains ! — but thy golden day 
Was not as those that warn us of decay. 

And ever, through thy shades, 
A swell of deep Eolian sound went by, 
From fountain-voices in their secret glades. 
And low recd-whispcrs, making sweet reply 

To summer's breezy sigh ! 
And young leaves trembling to the wind's light 

breath. 
Which ne'er had touched them with a hue of death ! 

And the transparent sky 
Rung as a dome, all thrilling to the strain 
Of harps that, 'midst the woods, made harmony 
Solemn and sweet ; yet troubling not the brain 

With dreams and yearnings vain, 
And dim remembrances, that still draw birth 
From the bewildering music of the earth. 

And who, with silent tread. 
Moved o'er the plains of waving Asphodel ? 
Who, called and severed from the countless dead, 
Amidst the shadowy Amaranth-bowers might 
dwell, 

And listen Jo the swell 
Of those majestic hymn-notes, and inhale 
The spirit wandering in th' immortal galel 



266 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



They of the sword, whose praise, 
With the bright wine at nations' feasts, went 

round ! 
They of the lyre, whose un forgotten lays 
On the morn's wing had sent their mighty sound. 

And in all regions found 
Their echoes 'midst the mountains! — and become 
In man's deep heart, as voices of his home 1 

They of the daring thought ! 
Daring and powerful, yet to dust allied; 
Whose flight through stars, and seas, and depths 

had sought 
The soul's far birth-place — but without a guide ! 

Sages and seers, who died, 
And left the world their high mysterious dreams, 
Born 'midst the olive-woods, by Grecian streams. 

But they, of whose abode 
'Midst her green valleys earth retained no trace. 
Save a flower springing from their burial-sod, 
A shade of sadness on some kindred face, 

A void and silent place 
In some sweet home ; — thou hadst no wreaths for 

these, 
Thou sunny land ! with all thy deathless trees ! 

The peasant, at his door 
Might sink to die, when vintage-feasts were spread, 
And songs on every wind! — From thy bright shore 
No lovelier vision floated round his head. 

Thou wert for nobler dead ! 
He heard the bounding steps which round him fell. 
And sighed to bid the festal sun farewell ! 

The slave, whose very tears 
Were a forbidden luxury, and whose breast 
Shut up the woes and burning thoughts of years. 
As in the ashes of an urn compressed ; 

— He might not be thy guest ! 
No gentle breathings from thy distant sky 
Came o'er his path, and whispered " Liberty !" 

Calm, on its leaf-strewn bier, 
Unlike a gift of nature to decay. 
Too rose-like still, too beautiful, too dear, 
The child at rest before its mother lay; 

E'en so to pass away, 
With its bright smile! — Elysium! what wert thou, 
To her, who wept o'er that young slumberer's 
brow "? 

Thou hadst no home, green land! 

For the fair creature from her bosom gone, 

With life's first flowers just opening in her hand. 

And all the lovely thoughts and dreams unknown, \ 

Which in its clear eye shone I 

Like the spring's wakening!— but that light was 

past — I 

' — Where went the dew-drop, swept before the' 

blast 1 i 



Not where thy soft winds played, 

Not where tiiy waters lay in glassy sleep! 

Fade, with thy bovvers, thou land of visions, fade ! 
From thee no voice came o'er the gloomy deep, » 

And bade man cease to weep! ' 

Fade, v*'ith the amaranth-plain, the myrtle-grove, 
Which could not yield one hope to sorrowing love ! 

For the most loved are they, 
Of whom Fame speaks not with her clarion-voice 
In regal hails! — the shades o'erhang their way, 
The vale, with its deep fountains, is their choice, 

And gentle hearts rejoice 
Around their steps! — till silently they die. 
As a stream shrinks from summer's burning eye. 

And the world knows not then. 
Not then, nor ever, what pure thoughts are fled! 
Yet these are they, that on the souls of men 
Come back, when night her folding veil hath 
spread. 

The long-remembered dead ! 
But not with thee might aught save glory dwell — 
— Fade, fade away, thou shore of Asphodel ! 



THE FUNERAL GENIUS; 

AN ANCIENT STATUE. 



"Debout, couronn6 de fleurs, les bras 61ev6s et posis sur 
la tete, et le dos appiiyS contre un pin, ce g6nie semble ex- 
primer par son altitude le repos des morts. Les bas-reliefa 
des tombeaux oflTrent souvent des figures semblables." 

Visconti, Description des Antiques du Musie Royal. 



Thou shouldst be looked on when the starlight 

falls 
Through the blue stillness of the summer-air 
Not by the torch-fire wavering on the walls j 
It hath too fitful and too wild a glare ! 
And thou! — thy rest, the soft, the lovely, seems 
To ask light steps, that will not break its dreams. 

Flowers are upon thy brow; for so the dead 
Were crowned of old, with pale spring-flowers like 

these: 
Sleep on thine eye hath sunk; yet softly shed, 
As from the wing of some faint southern breeze : 
And the pine-boughs o'ershadow thee with gloom 
Which of the grove seems breathing — not the 

tomb. 

They feared not death, whose calm and gracious 

thought 
Of the last hour, hath settled thus in thee ! 
They who thy wreath of pallid roses wrought, 
And laid thy head against the forest-tree. 
As that of one, by music's dreamy close, 
On the wood- violets lulled to deep repose. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



267 



They feared not death ! — yet who shall say his 

touch 
Thus lightly falls on gentle things and fair 1 
Doth he bestow, or will he leave so much 
Of tender beauty as thy features wear? 
Thou sleeper of the bower ! on whose young eyes 
So still a night, a night of summer, lies ! 

Had they seen aught like thee? — Did some fair boy 
Thus, with his graceful hair, before them rest? 
— His graceful hair, no more to wave in joy, 
But drooping, as with heavy dews oppressed! 
And his eye veiled so softly by its fringe, 
And his lip faded to the white-rose tinge? 

Oh! happy, if to them the one dread hour 
Made known its lessons from a brow like thine ! 
If all their knowledge of the spoiler's power 
Came by a look, so tranquilly divine ! 
— Let him, who thus hath seen the lovely part, 
Hold well that image to hb thoughtful heart! 

But thou, fair slumberer I was there less of wo. 

Or love, or terror, in the days of old, 

That men poured out their gladdening spirit's 

flow. 
Like sunshine, on the desolate and cold. 
And gave thy semblance to the shadowy king 
Who for deep souls had then a deeper sting? 

In the dark bosom of the earth they laid 
Far more than we — for loftier faith is ours! 
Their gems were lost in ashes — yet they made 
The grave a place of beauty and of flowers. 
With fragrant wreaths and summer boughs ar- 
rayed, 
And lovely sculpture gleaming through the shade. 

Is it for us a darker gloom to shed 
O'er its dim precincts? — do we not entrust 
But for a time its chambers with our dead. 
And strew immortal seed upon the dust? 
— Why should we dwell on that which lies be- 
neath, • 
When living light hath touched the brow of death? 



DIRGE OF A CHILD. 

No bitter tears for thee be shed. 
Blossom of being! seen and gone ! 
With flowers alone we strew thy bed, 

O blest departed one! 
Whose all of hfe, a rosy ray, 
Blushed into dawn, and passed away. 

Yes ! thou art fled, ere guilt had power 
To stain thy cherub soul and form, 
Closed is the soft ephemeral flower. 

That never felt a storm ! 
The sunbeam's smile, the zephyr's breath, 
All that it knew from birth to death. 



Thou wert so like a form of light. 
That Heaven benignly called thee hence. 
Ere yet the world could breathe one blight 

O'er thy sweet innocence: 
And thou, that brighter home to bless. 
Art passed, with all thy loveliness ! 

Oh ! hadst thou still on earth remained. 

Vision of beauty ! fair as brief! 

How soon thy brightness had been stained 

With passion or with grief! 
Now not a sullying breatli can rise, 
To dim thy glory in the skies. 

We rear no marble o'er thy tomb, 

No sculptured image there shall mourn ; 

Ah ! fitter far the vernal bloom 

Such dwelling to adorn. 
Fragrance, and flowers,. and dews, must be 
The only emblems meet for thee. 

Thy grave shall be a blessed shrine. 
Adorned with Nature's brightest wreath, 
Each glowing season shall combine 

Its incense there to breathe ; 
And oft, upon the midnight air, 
Shall viewless harps be murmuring there. 

And oh ! sometimes in visions blest, 

Sweet spirit ! visit our repose. 

And bear from thine own world of rest, 

Some balm for human woes ! 
What form more lovely could be given 
Than thine, to messenger of Heaven 1 



ENGLAND'S DEAD. 

Son of the ocean isle ! 
Where sleep your mighty dead ? 
Show me what high and stately pile 
Is reared o'er Glory's bed. 

Go, stranger! track the deep. 
Free, free, the white sail spread! 
Wave may not foam, nor wild wind sweep,- 
Where rest not England's dead. 

On Egypt's burning plains, 
By the pyramid o'erswayed, 
With fearful power the noon-day reigns, 
And the palm-trees yield no shade, 

But let the angry sun 
From heaven look fiercely red, 
Unfelt by those whose task is done! 
There slumber England's dead. 

The hurricane hath might 
Along the Indian shore. 
And far, by Ganges' banks at night, 
Is heard the tiger's roar. 



268 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



But let the sound roll on ! 
It hath no tone of dread 
For those that from their toils are gone ; 
— There slumber England's dead. 

Loud rush the torrent-floods 

The western wilds among, 

And free, in green Columbia's woods, 

The hunter's bow is strung. 

But let the floods rush on ! 
Let the arrow's flight be sped! 
"Why should they reck whose task is done 1 
There slumber England's dead ! 

The mountain-storms rise high 
In the snowy Pyrenees, 
And toss the pine-boughs through the sky, 
Like rose-leaves on the breeze. 

But let the storm rage on ! 
Let the forest-wreaths be shed ! 
For the Roncesvalles' field is won, 
There slumber England's dead. 

On the frozen deep's repose 
'T is a dark and dreadful hour, 
When round the ship the ice-fields close, 
To chain her with their power. 

But let the ice drift on ! 
Let the cold-blue desert spread ! 
Their course with mast and flag is done, 
There slumber England's dead. 

The warlike of the isles, 
The men of field and wave ! 
Are not the rocks their funeral piles, 
The seas and shores their grave? 

Go, stranger ! track the deep, 
Free, free the white sail spread ! 
Wave may not foam, nor wild wind sweep, 
Where rest not England's dead. 



TO THE MEMORY OF BISHOP HEBER. 

If it be sad to speak of treasures gone. 
Of sainted genius called too soon away, 

Of light, from this world taken, while it shone 
Yet kindling onward to the perfect day; — 

How shall our griefs, if these things mournful be, 

Flow forth, oh! thou of many gifts, for theel 

Hath not thy voice been here amongst us heard? 

And that deep soul of gentleness and power. 
Have we not felt its breath in every word. 

Wont from thy lip, as Hermon's dew, to shower ? 
— Yes ! in our hearts thy fervent tlioughts have 

burned — 
Of Heaven they were, and thither have returned. 



How shall we mourn thee ? — With a lofty trust, 

Our life's immortal birthright from above! 
With a glad faith, whose eye, to track the just, 
Through shades and mysteries lifts a glance oi 
love. 
And yet can weep ! — for nature thus deplores 
The friend that leaves us, though for happier 
shores. 

And one high tone of triumph o'er thy bier, 
One strain of solemn rapture be allowed — 

Thou, that rejoicing on thy mid career, 
Not to decay, but unto death, hast bowed: 

In those bright regions of the rising sun, 

Where victory ne'er a crown like thine had won. 

Praise! for yet one more name with power en- 
dowed, 
To cheer and guide us, onward as we press; 
Yet one more image, on the heart bestowed, 

To dwell there, beautiful in holiness ! 
Tliine, Heber, thine! whose memory from the 

dead, 
Shines as the star which to the Saviour led. 



THE HOUR OF PRAYER. 

Child, amidst the flowers at play, 
While the red light fades away; 
Mother, with thine earnest eye 
Ever following silently; 
Father, by the breeze of eve 
Called thy harvest- work to leave ; 
Pray ! — ere yet the dark hours be. 
Lift the heart and bend the knee! 

Traveller, in the stranger's land 
Far from thine own household band ; 
Mourner, haunted by the tone 
Of a voice from this world gone; 
Captive, in whose narrow cell 
Sunshine hath not leave to dwell; 
Sailor, on the darkening sea — 
Lift the heart and bend the knee! 

Wanior, that from battle won 
Breathest now at set of sun ! 
Woman, o'er the lowly slain 
Weeping on his burial plain: 
Ye that triumph, ye that sigh, 
Kindred by one holy tie. 
Heaven's first star alike ye see— _ 
Lift the heart and bend the knee!^ 



THE VOICE OF SPRING. 

I COME, I come ! ye have called me long, 
I come o'er the mountains with light and song ! 
Ye may trace my step o'er the wakening earth, 
By the winds which tell of the violet's birth, 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



269 



By the primrose-stars in the shadowy grass, 
By the green leaves, opening as I pass. 

I have breathed on the south, and the chesnut 

flowers 
By thousands have burst from the forest-bowers, 
And the ancient graves, and the fallen fanes. 
Are veiled with wreaths on Italian plains ; 
— But it is not for me, in my hour of bloom, 
To speak of the ruin or the tomb! 

I have looked o'er the hills of the stormy north, 
And the larch has hung all liis tassels forth, 
The fisher is out on the sunny sea. 
And the rein-deer bounds o'er the pastures free. 
And the pine has a fringe of softer green. 
And the moss looks bright, where my foot hath 
been. 

I have sent through the wood-paths a glowing 

sigh, 
And called out each voice of the deep blue sky; 
From the night-bird's lay through the starry time. 
In the groves of the soft Hesperian clime, 
To the swan's wild note, by the Iceland lakes. 
When the dark fir-branch into verdure breaks. 

From the streams and founts I have loosed the 

chain, 
They are sweeping on the silvery main. 
They are flashing down from the mountain brows, 
They are flinging spray o'er tlie forest-boughs. 
They are bursting fresh from their sparry caves. 
And the earth resounds with the joy of waves ! 

Come forth, O ye children of gladness, come ! 
Where the violets lie may be now your home. 
Ye of the rose lip and dew-bright eye, 
And the bounding footstep, to meet me fly ! 
With the lyre, and the wreath, and the joyous lay. 
Come forth to the sunshine, 1 may not stay. 

Away from the dwellings of care-worn men, 
The waters are sparkling in grove and glen ! 
Away from the chamber and sullen hearth. 
The young leaves are dancing in breezy mirth ! 
Their light stems thrill to the wild-wood strains. 
And youth is abroad in my green domains. 

But ye! — ye are changed since ye met me last ! 
There is something bright from your features 

passed ! 
There is that come over your brow and eye. 
Which speaks of a world where the flowers must 

die! 
— Ye smile ! but your smile hath a dimness yet — 
Oh ! what have ye looked on since last we met? 

Ye are changed, ye are changed ! — and I see not 

here 
All whom I saw in the vanished vear ; | 

27 



There were graceful heads, with their ringlets 

bright. 
Which tossed in the breeze with a play of light, 
There were eyes, in whose glistening laughter lay 
No faint remembrance of dull decay ! 

There were steps that flew o'er the cowslip's head, 

As if for a banquet all earth was spread ; 

There were voices that rung through the sapphire 

sky. 
And had not a sound of mortality! 
Are they gone 1 is their mirth from the mountains 

passed 1 
— Ye have looked on death smce ye met me last ! 

I know whence the shadow comes o'er you now, 
Ye have strewn the dust on the sunny brow! 
Ye have given the lovely to earth's embrace. 
She hath taken the fairest of beauty's race. 
With their laughing eyes and their festal crown. 
They are gone from amongst you in silence down ! 

They are gone from amongst you, the young and 

fair. 
Ye have lost the gleam of their shining hair ! 
— But I know of a land where there falls no blight, 
I shall find them there with their eyes of light ! 
Where Death 'midst the blooms of the morn may 

dwell, 
I tarry no longer — farewell, farewell ! 

The summer is coming, on soft winds borne. 
Ye may press the grape, ye may bind the corn ! 
For me, I depart to a brighter shore. 
Ye arc marked by care, ye are mine no more. 
I go where the loved who have left you dwell, 
And the flowers are not Death's — fare ye well, fare- 
well! 



THE LANDING OF THE PILGRIM 
FATHERS. 

The breaking waves dashed high 

On a stern and rock-bound coast, 
And the woods, against a stormy sky. 

Their giant branches tost ; 

And the heavy night hung dark 

The hills and waters o'er. 
When a band of exiles moored their bark 

On the wild New England shore. 

Not as the conqueror comes. 

They, the true-hearted came. 
Not with the roll of the stirring drums. 

And the trumpet that sings of fame ; 

Not as the flying come, 

In silence and in fear, — 
They shook the depths of the desert's gloom 

With their hymns of lofty cheer. 



270 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



Amidst the storm they sang, 

And the stars heard and the sea ! 
And the sounding aisles of the dim woods rang 

To the anthem of the free ! 

The ocean-eagle soared 

From his nest by the white wave's foam, 
And the rocking pines of the forest roared — 

This was their welcome home ! 

There were men with hoary hair, 

Amidst that pilgrim-band — 
Why had they come to wither there 

Away from their childhood's land 1 

There was woman's fearless eye, 

Lit by her deep love's truth ; 
There was manhood's brow serenely high, 

And the fiery heart of youth. 

WTiat sought they thus afar ? 

Bright jewels of the minel 
The wealth of seas, the spoils of war "? 

— They sought a faith's pure shrine ! 

Ay, call it holy ground, 

The soil where first they trod ! 

They have left unstained what there they found- 
Freedom to worship God ! 



[These glorious verses will find an echo in the breast of 
every tme descendant of the Pilgrims ; and give the name 
of their authoress a place in many hearts. She has laid our 
community under a common obligation of gratitude. Every 
one must feel the sublirnity and poetical truth, with which she 
has conceived the scene pres^ented, and the inspiration of that 
deep and holy strain of sentiment, which sounds forth like the 
pealing of an organ.] 



THE HEBREW MOTHER. 

The rose was rich in bloom on Sharon's plain, 
When a young mother with her first-born thence 
Went up to Zion, for the boy was vowed 
Unto the Temple-service ; — by the hand 
She led him, and her silent soul, the while, 
Oft as the dewy laughter of his eye 
Met her sweet serious glance, rejoiced to think 
That aught so pure, so beautiful, was hers, 
To bring before her God. So passed they on. 
O'er Judah's hills ; and wheresoe'er the leaves 
Of the broad sycamore made sounds at noon, 
Like lulling rain-drops, or the olive-boughs, 
With their cool dimness, crossed the sultry blue 
Of Syria's heaven, she paused, that he might rest; 
Yet from her own meek eyelids chased the sleep 
That weighed their dark fringe down, to sit and 

watch 
The crimson deepening o'er his cheek's repose. 
As at a red flower's heart. — And where a fount 



Lay like a twilight-star 'midst palmy shades, 

Making its banks green gems along the wild, 

There too she lingered, from the diamond wave 

Drawing bright water for his rosy lips, 

And softly parting clusters of jet curls 

To bathe his brow. At last the Fane was reached, 

The Earth's One Sanctuary — and rapture hushed 

Her bosom, as before her, through the day. 

It rose, a mountain of white marble, steeped 

In light, hke floating gold. But when that hour 

Waned to the farewell moment, when the boy 

Lifted, through rainbow-gleaming tears, his eye 

Beseechingly to hers, and half in fear 

Turned from the white-robed priest, and round 

her arm 
Clung as the ivy clings — the deep spring-tide 
Of Nature then swelled high, and o'er her child 
Bending, her soul broke forth, in mingled sounds 
Of weeping and sad song. — " Alas," she cried, 

" Alas ! my boy, thy gentle grasp is on me, 
The bright tears quiver in thy pleading eyes, 

And now fond thoughts arise, 
And silver cords again to earth have won me ; 
And like a vine thou claspest my full heart — 

How shall I hence depart 1 

"How the lone paths retrace where thou wert 

playing 
So late, along the mountains, at my side 1 

And I, in joyous pride. 
By every place of flowers my course delaying 
Wove, e'en as pearls, the lilies round thy hair, 

Beholding thee so fair ! 

" And oh ! the home whence thy bright smile 

hath parted. 
Will it not seem as if the sunny day 

Turned from its door away? 
While through its chambers wemdering, weary- 
hearted, 

I languish for thy voice, which past me still 
Went like a singing rill 1 

Under the palm-trees thou no more shalt meet 
me, 
When from the fount at evening I return. 

With the full water-urn ; 
Nor will thy sleep's low dove-like breathings greet 

me. 

As 'midst the silence of the stars I wake, 
And watch for thy dear sake. 

And thou, will slumber's dewy cloud fall round 
thee, 
Without thy mother's hand to smooth thy bed 1 

Wilt thou not vainly spread 
Thine arms, when darkness as a veil hath wound 

thee. 
To fold my neck, and lift up, in thy fear. 
A cry which none shall hear 1 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



271 



" What have I said, my child ?— Will He not hear 

thee, 
Who the young ravens heareth from their nest "? 

Shall He not guard thy rest, 
And, in tlic hush of holy midnight near thee, 
Breathe o'er thy soul, and fill its dreams with joy ? 

Thou shall sleep soft, my boy ! 

" I give thee to thy God— the God that gave thee, 
A wellspring of deep gladness to my heart ! 

And precious as thou art. 
And pure as dew of Hermon. He shall have thee, 
My own, my beautiful, my undefiled ! 

And thou shalt be His child. 

" Therefore, farewell ! — I go, my soul may fail me, 
As the hart pantcth for the water-brooks, 

Yearning for thy sweet looks — 
But thou, my first-born, droop not, nor bewail 

me; 
Thou in the Shadow of the Rock shalt dwell, 

The Rock of Strength.— Farewell!'' 



THE CHILD AND DOVE. 

SUGGESTED BY CHAXTREY's STATCE OF LADY 
LOUISA RUSSELL. 

Thou art a thing on our dreams to rise, 
'Midst the echoes of long-lost melodies, 
And to fling bright dew from the morning back. 
Fair form ! on each image of childhood's track. 

Thou art a thing to recall the hours. 

When the love of our souls was on leaves and 

flowers 
When a world was our own in some dim sweet 

grove, 
And treasure untold in one captive dove. 

Are they gone 1 can we think it, while thou art 

there. 
Thou joyous child with the clustering hair 1 
Is it not Spring that indeed breathes free 
And fresh o'er each thought, while we gaze on 

thee"? 

No ! never more may wc smile as thou 
Sheddest round smiles from thy sunny brow ; 
Yet something it is, in our hearts to shrine 
A memory of beauty undimmed as thine. 

To have met the joy of thy speaking face, 
To have felt ihc spell of thy breezy grace, 
To have lingered before thee, and turned, and 

borne 
One vision awav of the cloudless mom. 



THE CHILD'S LAST SLEEP. 

ON A MONUMENT BY CHANTREY FOR AN INFANT 
DAUGHTER OF SIR THO.MAS ACKLAND. 

Thou sleepest — but when wilt thou wake, fair 

child 7 
— When the fawn awakes 'midst the forest wild 1 
When the lark's wing mounts with the breeze of 

morn. 
When the first rich breath of the rose is born 1 
— Lovely thou sleepest, yet something lies 
Too deep and still on thy soft-sealed eyes ; 
Mournful, though sweet, is thy rest to see — 
When will the hour of thy rising bel 

Net when the fawn wakes, not when the lark 
On the crimson cloud of the morn floats dark — 
Grief with pain passionate tears hath wet 
The hair, shedding gleams from thy pale brow yet ; 
Love with sad kis.ses unfelt hath prest 
Thy meek dropt eyelids and quiet breast ; 
And the glad Spring, calling out bird and bee, 
Shall colour all blossoms, fair child, but thee. 

T hou 'rt gone from us,bright one— that thou shouldst 

die, 
And life be left to the butterfly !* 
Thou 'rt gone, as a dew-tlrop is swept from the 

bough, 
— Oh ! for the world where thy home is now ! 
How may we love but m doubt and fear, 
How may we anchor our fond hearts here, 
How should e'en Joy but a trembler be. 
Beautiful dust ! when we look on thee 1 



THE LADY OF THE CASTLE. 

FROM '• THE PORTRAIT GALLERY," AN UNFINISHED 
POEM. 

Thou seest her pictured with her shining hair, 
(Famed were its tresses in Provencal song,) 
Half braided, half o'er check and bosom fair 
Let loose, and pouring sunny waves along 
Her gorgeous vest. — A child's light hand is roving 
'Midst the rich curls, and oh ! how meekly loving 
Its earnest looks are lifted to the face, 
Which bends to meet its lip in laughing grace. — 
Yet that bright lady's eye methinks hath less 
Of deep, and still, and pensive tenderness, 
Than might beseem a mother's — on her brow 
Something too much there sits of native scorn. 
And her smile kindles with a conscious glow. 
As from the thought of sovereign beauty bom. 
— Thesemay be dreams — but howshall woman tell 
Of woman's shame, and not with tears'? — she fell! 



■ A butterfly, as if fluttering on a flower, ie sculptured on 
the monument. 



272 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



That mother left that child — went hurrying by 
Its cradle — haply, not without a sigh — 
Haply one moment o'er its rest serene 
She hung — but no ! it could not thus have been, 
For she went on ! — forsook her home, her hearth, 
All pure affection, all sweet household mirth. 
To live a gaudy and dishonoured thing, 
Sharing in guilt the splendours of a king. 

Her lord, in very weariness of life. 
Girt on his sword for scenes of distant strife ; 
He recked no more of glory — grief and shame 
Crushed out his fiery nature, and his name 
Died silently. — A shadow o'er his halls 
Crept year by year; the minstrel passed their walls, 
The warder's horn hung mute; — meantime the child 
On whose first flowering thoughts no parent smiled, 
A gentle girl, and yet deep-hearted, grew 
Into sad youth ; for well, too well she knew 
Her mother's tale ! — Its memory made the sky 
Seem all too joyous for her shrinking eye ; 
Checked on her lip the flow of song, which fain 
Would there have lingered; flushed her cheek to pain 
If met by sudden glance ; and gave a tone 
Of sorrow, as for something lovely gone. 
E'en to the Spring's glad voice. — Her own was low. 
And plaintive — oh ! there he such depths of wo 
In a young blighted spirit. — Manhood rears 
A haughty brow, and Age has done with tears, 
But youth bows down to misery, in amaze 
At the dark cloud o'ermantling its fresh days ; 
And thus it was with her. — A mournful sight 
In one so fair ; for she indeed was fair — 
Not with her mother's dazzling eyes of light. 
Hers were more shadowy, full of th ought and prayer, 
And with long lashes o'er a white-rose cheek 
Drooping in gloom, yet tender still, and meek, 
Still that fond child's— and oh ! the brow above, 
So pale and pure ! so formed for holy love 
To gaze upon in silence ! — but she felt 
That love was not for her, though hearts would melt 
Where'er she moved, and reverence mutely given 
Went with her ; and low prayers, that called on 

Heaven 
To bless the young Isaure. 

One sunny morn, 
With alms before her castle gate she stood, 
'Midst peasant-groups ; when breathless and o'er- 

worn, 
And shrouded in long weeds of widowhood, 
A stranger through them broke — the orphan maid 
With her sweet voice, and proffered hand of aid, 
Turned to give welcome ; but a wild sad look 
Met hers ; a gaze that all her spirit shook ; 
And that pale woman, suddenly subdued 
By some strong passion in its gushing mood, 
Knelt at her feet, and bathed them with such tears 
As rain the hoarded agonies of years 



From the heart's urn — and with her white lips prest 
The ground they trod — then, burying in her vest 
Her brow's deep flush, sobbed out, "Oh! undefiled! 
I am thy mother ! — spurn me not, my child !" 

Isaure had prayed for that lost mother — wept 
O'er her stained memor}'', when the happy slept, 
In the hushed midnight ; stood with mournful gaze 
Before yon picture's smile of other days ; 
But never breathed in human ear the name 
Which weighed her being to the earth with shame 
What marvel if the anguish of sui-prise, 
The dark remembrances, the altered guise, 
Awhile o'erpowered herl — from the weeper's touch 
She shrank — 't was but a moment — yet too much 
For that all humbled one — its mortal stroke 
Came down like lightning's, and her full heart broke 
At once in silence. — Heavily and prone 
She sank, while, o'er her castle's threshold-stone, 
Those long fair tresses — they still brightly wore 
Their early pride, though bound with pearls no 

more — 
Bursting their fillet, in sad beauty rolled, 
And swept the dust with coils of wavy gold. 

Her child bent o'er her — called her — 't was too late! 
Dead lay the wanderer at her own proud gate. — 
The joy of courts, the star of knight and bard — 
How didst thou fall, oh ! bright-haired Ermengarde ! 



TO THE IVY. 

OCCASIONED BY RECEIVING A LEAP GATHERED IN 
THE CASTLE OP RHEINPELS. 

Oh ! how could Fancy crown with thee, 

In ancient days, the god of wine, 
And bid thee at the banquet be, 

Companion of the vine 1 
Thy home, wild plant, is where each sound 

Of revelry hath long been o'er ; 
Where song's full notes once pealed around, 

But now are heard no more. 

The Roman, on his battle plains, 

Where kings before his eagles bent, 
Entwined thee, with exulting strains. 

Around the victor's tent ; 
Yet there, though fresh in glossy green, 

Triumphantly thy boughs might wave, — 
Better thou lovest the silent scene, 

Around the victor's grave. 

Where sleep the sons of ages flown, 

The bards and heroes of the past. 
Where, through the halls of glory gone, 

Murmurs the wintry blast ; 
Where years are hastening to efface 

Each record of the grand and fair — 
Thou in thy solitary grace. 

Wreath of the tomb! art there. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



273 



Oh ! many a temple, once sublime, 

Beneath a blue, Italian sky, 
Hath nought of beauty left by time. 

Save thy wild tapestry. 
And reared 'midst crags and clouds, 'tis thine 

To wave where banners waved of yore, 
O'er towers that crest the noble Rhine, 

Along his rocky shore. 

High from the fields of air, look down 

Those eyries of a vanished race, 
Homes of the mighty, whose renown 

Hath passed and left no trace. 
But thou art there — thy foliage bright, 

Unchanged, the mountain-storm can brave— 
Thou that wilt chmb the loftiest height, 

And deck the humblest grave. 

The breathing forms of Parian stone. 

That rise round Grandeur's marble halls; 
The vivid hues by painting thrown 

Rich o'er the glowing walls; 
Th' acanthus on Corinthian fanes. 

In sculpured beauty waving fair. — 
These perish all — and what remains? — 

Thou, thou alone art there. 

'T is still the same — where'er we tread. 

The wrecks of human power we see. 
The marvels of all ages fled. 

Left to Decay and thee. 
And still let man his fabrics rear, 

August in beauty, grace, and strength — 
Days pass, thou " Ivy never sere,"* 

And all is thine at length. 



ON A LEAF FROM THE TOMB OF 
VIRGIL. 

And was thy home, pale withered thing. 

Beneath the rich blue southern sky? 
Wert thou a nurseling of the Spring, 
The winds and suns of glorious Italy"? 

Those suns in golden liglit, e'en now, 
Look o'er the Poet's lonely grave. 

Those winds are breathing soft, but thou 
Answering their whisper, there no more shalt 
wave. 

The flowers o'er Posilippo's brow, 

May cluster in their purple bloom, 
But on th' o'ershadowing ilex-bough. 
Thy breezy place is void, by Virgil's tomb. 



* "Ye myrtlcE brown, and ivy nnver spie."' — Lyrida.^ 



Thy place is void — oh ! none on earth. 
This crowded earth, may so remain, 

Save that which souls of loftiest birth 
Leave when they part, their brighter home to 
gain. 

Another leaf ere now hath sprung. 

On the green stem which once was thine — 
When shall another strain be sung 
Like his whose dust hath made that spot a shrine'? 



FOR A DESIGN OF A BUTTERFLY 
RESTING ON A SKULL. 

Creature of air and light. 
Emblem of that which may not fade or die, 

Wilt thou not speed thy flight, 
To chase the south- wind through the glowing sky 1 

What lures thee thus to stay. 

With Silence and Decay, 
Fixed on the wreck of cold Mortality? 

The thoughts once chambered there, 
Have gathered up their treasures, and are gone — 

Will the dust tell us where 
They that have burst the prison-house are flown? 

Rise, nursling of the day. 

If thou wouldst trace their way — 
Earth hath no voice to make the secret known. 

Who seeks the vanished bird 
By the forsaken nest and broken shell ? — 

Far thence he sings unheard, 
Yet free and joyous in the woods to dwell. 

Thou of the sunshine born, 

Take the bright wings of morn ! 
Thy hope calls heaven-ward from yon ruined cell. 



THE LOST PLEIAD. 

" Like the lost Pleiad seen no more I)elow." 

Byron. 

And is there glory from the heavens departed? 
— Oh! void unmarked! — thy sisters of the sky 

Still hold their place on high, 
Though from its rank thine orh so long hath 

started. 
Thou, that no more art seen of mortal eye. 

Hath the night lost a gem, the regal night? 

She wears her crown of old magnificence. 

Though thou art exiled thence — 

No desert seems to part those urns of light, 

'Midst the far depth of purple gloom intense. 

They rise in joy, the starry myriads burning — 
The shepherd greets them on his mountains 
free ; 
And from the silvery sea 



274 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



To them the sailor's wakeful eye is turning — 
Unchanged they rise, they have not mourned for 
thee. 

Couldst thou be shaken from thy radiant place 
E'en as a dew-drop from the myrtle spray, 
Swept by the wind away 1 
Wert thou not peopled by some glorious race. 
And was there power to smite them with decay "? 

Why, who shall talk of thrones, of sceptres riven 1 
Bowed be our hearts to think of what we are, 
When from its height afar 
A world sinks thus — and yon majestic heaven 
Shines not the less for that one vanished star! 



THE SLEEPER ON MARATHON. 

I LAY upon the solemn plain 

And by the funeral mound. 
Where those who died not there in vain. 

Their place of sleep had found. 
'T was silent where the free blood gushed, 

When Persia came arrayed — 
So many a voice had there been hushed, 

So many a footstep stayed. 

I slumbered on the lonely spot. 

So sanctified by Death — 
I slumbered — but my rest was not 

As theirs who lay beneath. 
For on my dreams, that shadowy hour. 

They rose — the chainless dead — 
AH armed they sprang, in joy, in power. 

Up from their grassy bed. 

1 saw their spears, on that red field, 

Plash as in time gone by — 
Chased to the seas, without his shield 

I saw the Persian fly. 
I woke — the sudden trumpet's blast 

Called to another fight — 
From visions of our glorious past, 

Who doth not wake in might? 



TROUBADOUR SONG. 

The warrior crossed the ocean's foam, 
For the stormy fields of war — 

The maid was left in a smiling home. 
And a sunny land afar. 

His voice was heard where javelin showers 
Poured on the steel-clad line ; 

Her step was 'midst the summer-flowers, 
Her seat beneath the vine. 



His shield was cleft, his lance was riven, 
And the red blood stained his crest ; 

While she — the gentlest wind of heaven 
Might scarcely fan her breast. 

Yet a thousand arrows passed him by, 
And again he crossed the seas ; 

But she had died, as roses die. 
That perish with a breeze. 

As roses die, when the blast is come, 
For all things bright and fair — 

There was death within the smiling home. 
How had death found her there 1 



THE TRUMPET. 

The trumpet's voice hath roused the land. 

Light up the beacon pyre ! 
— A hundred hills have seen the brand 

And waved the sign of fire. 
A hundred banners to the breeze 

Their gorgeous folds have cast — 
And hark ! — was that the sound of seasl 

— A king to war went past. 

The chief is arming in his hall, 

The peasant by his hearth ; 
The mourner hears the thriUing call, 

And rises from the earth. 
The mother on her first-born son 

Looks with a boding eye — 
They come not back, though all be won. 

Whose young hearts leap so high. 

The bard hath ceased his song, and bound 

The falchion to his side ; 
E'en for the marriage altar crowned. 

The lover quits his bride. 
And all this haste, and change, and fear, 

By earthly clarion spread ! — 
How will it be when kingdoms hear 

The blast that wakes the dead 1 



THE DYING BARD'S PROPHECY. 

AT THE TIME OF THE SUPPOSED MASSACRE BY 
EDWARD I. 

The Hall of Harps is lone this night, 

And cold the chieftain's hearth ; 
It hath no mead, it hath no light, 
No voice of melody, no sound of mirth. 

And I depart — my wound is deep. 

My brethren long have died — 
Yet, ere my soul grow dark with sleep, 
Winds! bear the spoiler one more tone of pride. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



275 



Bear it, where on his battle-plain, 

Beneath the setting sun, 
He counts my country's noble slain — 
Say to him — Saxon! — think not all is won. 

Thou hast laid low the warrior's head. 

The minstrel's chainless hand; 
Dreamer ! that numbcrest with the dead 
The burning spirit of the mountain-land. 

Think'st thou, because the song hath ceased, 

The soul of song is flown 1 
Think'st thou it woke to crown the feast, 
It lived beside the ruddy hearth alone? 

No ! by our names and by our blood, 

We leave it pure and free — 
Though hushed awhile, that sounding flood 
Shall roll in joy through ages yet to be. 

We leave it, 'midst our country's wo, 

The birthright of her breast — 
We leave it, as we leave the snow, 
Bright and eternal, on Eryri's* crest. 

We leave it with our fame to dwell, 

Upon our children's breath — 
Our voice in theirs through time shall swell — 
The bard hath gifts of prophecy from death. 

He dies — but yet the mountains stand, 

Yet sweeps the torrent's tide, 
And this is yet Eneurin'st land — 
Winds ! bear the spoiler one more tone of pride. 



THE WRECK. 

All night the booming minute-gun 

Had pealed along the deep, 
And mournfully the rising sun 

Looked o'er the tide-worn steep. 
A bark from India's coral strand. 

Before the raging blast, 
Had vailed her topsails to the sand, 

And bowed her noble mast. 

The queenly ship ! — brave hearts had striven. 

And true ones died with her — 
We saw her mighty cable riven, 

Lil<.e floating gossamer. 
We saw her proud flag struck that morn, 

A star once o'er the seas — 
Her anchor gone, her deck uptorn. 

And sadder things than these. 

We saw her treasures cast away — 
The rocks with pearls were sown. 



* Eryri, the Welsh name for Snowdon. 
t Eneurin, acelcbratpd ancient Biiiisli bard. 



And strangely sad, the ruby's ray 

Flashed out o'er fretted stone. 
And gold was strewn the wet sands o'er. 

Like ashes by a breeze — 
And gorgeous robes — but oh ! that shore 

Had sadder things than these! 

We saw the strong man still and low, 

A crushed reed thrown aside — 
Yet by that rigid lip and brow. 

Not without strife he died. 
And near him on the sea-weed lay — 

Till then we had not wept. 
But well our gushing hearts might say. 

That there a mother slept! 

For her pale arms a babe had prest. 

With such a wreathing grasp. 
Billows had dashed o'er that fond breast, 

Yet not undone the clasp. 
Her very tresses had been flung 

To wrap the fair child's form, 
Where still their wet long streamers clung. 

All tangled by the storm. 

And beautiful 'midst that wild scene, 

Gleamed up the boy's dead face. 
Like Slumber's trustingly serene. 

In melancholy grace. 
Deep in her bosom lay his head. 

With half-shut violet eye — 
He had known httle of her dread. 

Nought of her agony ! 

Oh! human Love, whose yearning heart. 

Through all things vainly true, 
So stamps upon thy mortal part 

Its passionate adieu — 
Surely thou hast another lot. 

There is some home for thee, 
Where thou shall rest, remembering no» 

The moaning of the sea! 



A VOYAGER'S DREAM OF LAND. 



His very heart athirst 

To gaze at Nature in her green array, 
TJiwn the ship's tall side he stands, possessed, 
With visions prompted by intense desire; 
Fair fields appear below, such as he left 
Far distant, such as he would die to find — 
He seeks litem headlong, and is seen no more 

Cowper, 



The hollow dash of waves!— the ceaseless roar! 
Silence, ye billows— vex my soul no more ! 

There's a spring in the woods by my sunny 

home. 
Afar from the dark sea's tossing foam; 



276 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



Oh! the fall of that fountain is sweet to hear, 
As a song from the shore to the sailor's ear. 
And the sparkle which up to the sun it throws, 
Through the feathery fern, and the olive boughs, 
And the gleam on its path as it steals away 
Into deeper shades from the sultry day, 
And the large water-lilies that o'er its bed 
Their pearly leaves to the soft light spread. 
They haunt me ! — 1 dream of that bright spring's 

flow, 
I thirst for its rills like a wounded roe. 

Be still, thou sea-bird, with thy clanging cry, 
My spirit sickens as thy wing sweeps by ! 

Know ye my home, with the lulling sound 
Of leaves from the Ume and the chesnut round 1 
Know ye it, brethren, where bowered it lies, 
Under the purple of southern skies 1 
With the streamy gold of the sun that shines 
In through the cloud of its clustering vines. 
And the breath of the fainting myrtle-flowers, 
Borne from the mountains in dewy hours. 
And the fire-fly's glance through the darkening 

shades. 
Like shooting stars in the forest-glades. 
And the scent of the citron at eve's dim fall — 
Speak! — have ye known, have ye felt them all? 

The heavy-rolling surge, the rocking mast ! 
Hush! — give my dream's deep music way, thou 
blast! 

Oh ! the glad sounds of the joyous earth ! 
The notes of the singing cicala's mirth, 
The murmurs that live in the mountain-pines. 
The sighing of reeds as the day declines. 
The wings flitting home through the crimson 

glow 
That steeps the woods when the sun is low. 
The voice of the night-bird that sends a thrill 
To the heart of the leaves when the winds are 

still— 
I hear them! — around me they rise, they swell. 
They claim back my spirit with Hope to dwell. 
They come with a breath from the fresh spring- 
time. 
And waken my youth in its hour of prime. 

The white foam dashes high — away, away. 
Shroud my green land no more, thou blinding 
spray ! 

It is there! — down the mountains I see the 

sweep 
Of the chesnut forests, the rich and deep; 
With the burden and glory of flowers that they 

wear, ' 

Floating upborne on the blue summer air. 
And the light pouring through them in tender 

gleams. 
And the flashing forth of a thousand streams. 



— Hold me not, brethren, I go, I go, 

To the hills of my youth, where the myrtles 

blow. 
To the depths of th? woods, where the shadows 

rest, 
Massy and still, on the greensward's breast. 
To the rocks that resound with the water's 

play— 
I hear the sweet laugh of my fount — give way ! 

Give way ! — the booming surge, the tempest's roar, 
The sea-bird's wail, shall vex my soul no more. 



THE GRAVE OF KORNER. 

Charles Theodore Korner, the celebrated young 
German poet and soldier, was killed in a skirmish 
with a detachment of French troops, on the 20th 
of August, 1813, a few hours after the composi- 
tion of his popular piece, " The Sword Song." 
He was buried at the village of Wobbelin in 
Mecklenburg, under a beautiful oak, in a recess 
of which he had frequently deposited verses com- 
posed by him while campaigning in its vicinity. 
The monument erected to his memory is of cast 
iron, and the upper part is wrought into a lyre and 
a sword, a favourite emblem of Korner's, from 
which one of his works had been entitled. Near 
the grave of the poet is that of his only sister, who 
died of grief for his loss, having only survived him 
long enough to complete his portrait, and a draw- 
ing of his burial-place. Over the gate of the ce- 
metery is engraved one of his own lines. 

"Vergiss die treuenTodten niclit." 
"Forget not the faithful Dead." 

See Downes's Letters from Mecklenburg and 
Korner's Prosaische Aufsdtze, von C. A. Tiedge. 



Green wave the oak for ever o'er thy rest, 

Thou that beneath its crowning foliage sleepest. 

And, in the stillness of thy country's breast, 
Thy place of memory, as an altar, keepest; 

Brightly thy spirit o'er her hills was poured, 
Thou of the Lyre and Sword ! 

Rest, Bard, rest. Soldier ! — by the father's hand 
Here shall the child of afl;er years be led, 

With his wreath-offering silently to stand. 
In the hushed presence of the glorious dead. 

Soldier and Bard ! for thou thy path hast trod 
With Freedom and with God.* 



' The poems of Korner, which were chiefly devoted to tlie 
cause of his country, are strikingly distinguished by religious 
feelings, and a confidence in the Supreme Justice for the final 
deliverance of Germany. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



277 



The oak waved proudly o'er thy burial rite, 
On thy crowned bier to slumber warriors bore 
thee, 
And with true hearts thy brethren of the fight 
Wept as they vailed their drooping banners o'er 
thee ; 
And the deep guns with rolling peal gave token 
That Lyre and Sword were broken. 

Thou hast a hero's tomb — a lowlier bed 
Is hers, the gentle girl beside thee lying. 

The gentle girl, that bowed her fair young head, 
When thou wert gone, in silent sorrow dying. 

Brother, true friend ! the tender and the brave — 
She pined to share thy grave. 

Fame was thy gift from others — but for her, 
To whom the wide world held that only spot — 

She loved thee — lovely in your lives ye were, 
And in your early deaths divided not. 

Thou hast thine oak, thy trophy — what hath she? 
— Her own best place by thee ! 

It was thy spirit, brother ! which had made 
The bright world glorious to her thoughtful eye. 

Since first in childhood 'midst the vines ye played. 
And sent glad singing through the free blue sky. 

Ye were but two — and when that spirit passed, 
Wo to the one, the last ! 

Wo, yet not long — she lingered but to trace 
Thine image from the image in her breast 

Once, once again to see that buried face 
But smile upon her, ere she went to rest. 

Too sad a smile ! its living light was o'er — 
It answered her's no more. 

The earth grew silent when thy voice departed, 
The home too lonely whence thy step had fled — 

What then was left for her, the faithful-hearted? — 
Death, death, to still the yearning for the dead. 

Softly she perished — be the Flower deplored. 
Here with the Lyre and Sword. 

Have ye not met ere now ? — so let those trust 

That meet for moments but to part for years, 

That weep, watch, pray, to hold back dust from 

dust, 

That love, where love is but a fount of tears. 

Brother, sweet sister ! peace around ye dwell — 

Lyre, Sword, and Flower, farewell ! 



THE GRAVES OF A HOUSEHOLD. 

They grew in beauty, side by side. 
They filled one home with glee — 

Their graves are severed far and wide. 
By mount, and stream, and sea. 



The same fond mother bent at night 
O'er each fair sleeping brow ; 

She had each folded flower in sight — 
Where are those dreamers now 1 

One, 'midst the forests of the West, 

By a dark stream is laid — 
The Indian knows his place of rest, 

Far in the cedar shade. 

The sea, the blue lone sea, hath one. 
He lies where pearls lie deep — 

He was the loved of all, yet none 
O'er his low bed may weep. 

One sleeps where southern vines are drest, 

Above the noble slain ; 
He wrapt his colours round his breast, 

On a blood-red field of Spain. 

And one — o'er her the myrtle showers 
Its leaves, by soft winds fanned ; 

She faded 'midst Itahan flowers. 
The last of that bright band. 

And palled thus they rest, who played 
Beneath the same green tree ; 

Whose voices mingled as they prayed 
Around one parent knee ! 

They that with smiles lit up the hall. 

And cheered with song the hearth- 
Alas ! for love, if thou wert all. 

And nought beyond, Oh earth ! 



THE LAST WISH. 

Go to the forest shade, 

Seek thou the well-known glade 

Where, heavy with sweet dew, the violets lie ; 
Gleaming through moss-tufts deep. 
Like dark eyes filled with sleep. 

And bathed in hues of summer's midnight sky. 

Bring me their buds, to shed 

Around my dying bed 
A breath of May, and of the wood's repose ; 

For I, in sooth, depart 

With a reluctant heart, 
That fain would linger where the bright sun glows. 

Fain would I stay with thee — 

Alas ! this must not be ; 
Yet bring me still the gifts of happier hours ! 

Go where tiie fountain's breast 

Catches, in glassy rest. 
The dim green light that pours through laurel 
bowers. 



278 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



I know how softly bright. 

Steeped in that tender light, 
The water-lilies tremble there, e'en now ; 

Go to the pure stream's edge, 

And from its whispering sedge 
Bring me those flowers to cool my fevered brow. 

Then, as in hope's young days, 

Track thou the antique maze 
Of the rich garden, to its grassy mound; 

There is a lone white rose, 

Shedding, in sudden snows. 
Its faint leaves o'er the emerald turf around. 

Well know'st thou that fair tree ! 

— A murmur of the bee 
Dwells ever in the honied lime above ; 

Bring me one pearly flower. 

Of all its clustering shower — 
For on that spot we first revealed our love ! 

Gather one woodbine bough, 

Then, from the lattice low 
Of the bowered cottage which I bade thee mark, 

When by the hamlet last 

Through dim wood-lanes we passed. 
Where dews were glancing to the glow-worm's 
spark. 

Haste ! to my pillow bear 
Those fragrant things, and fair — 

My hand no more may bind them up at eve ; 
Yet shall their odour soft 
One bright dream round me waft. 

Of life, youth, summer — all that I must leave ! 

And oh ! if thou wouldst ask, 

Wherefore thy steps I task 
The grove, the stream, the hamlet-vale to trace ; 

— 'T is that some thought of me. 

When I am gone, may be 
The spirit bound to each familiar place. 

I bid mine image dwell, 

(Oh ! break thou not the spell !) 
In the deep wood, and by the fountain side — 

Thou must not, my beloved ! 

Rove where we two have roved, 
Forgetting her that in her spring-time died. 



A MONARCH'S DEATH-BED. 

The Emperor Albert of Hapsburg, wlio was assassinated 
by his nephew, afterwards called John the Parricide, was left 
10 die by the way -side, and was supported in his last momenta 
by a female peasant, who happened to be passing. 

A MONARCH on his death-bed lay — 

Did censers waft perfume. 
And soft lamps pour their silvery ray, 

Through his proud chamber's gloom 1 



He lay upon a greensward bed, 

Beneath a darkening sky — 
A lone tree waving o'er his head, 

A swift stream rolling by. 

Had he then fallen, as warriors fall. 

Where spear strikes fire from spear "? 
Was there a banner for his pall, 

A buckler for his bier ? — 
Not so — nor cloven shields nor helms 

Had strewn the bloody sod. 
Where he, the helpless lord of realms. 

Yielded his soul to God. 

Were there not friends, with words of cheer, 

And princely vassals nigh? 
And priests, the crucifix to rear 

Before the fading eye 1 — 
A peasant girl, that royal head 

Upon her bosom laid ; 
And, shrinking not for woman's dread, 

The face of death surveyed. 

Alone she sat — from hill and wood 

Red sank the mournful sun ; 
Fast gushed the fount of noble blood, 

Treason its worst had done ! 
With her long hair she vainly pressed 

The wounds, to staunch their tide — 
Unknown, on that meek humble breast, 

Imperial Albert died ! 



THE HOUR OF DEATH. 

Leaves have their time to fall. 
And flowers to wither at the north-wind's breath, 

And stars to set — but all. 
Thou hast all seasons for thine own, oh ! Death. 

Day is for mortal care, 
Eve for glad meetings round the joyous hearth, 

Night for the dreams of sleep, the voice of 
prayer — 
But all for thee, thou Mightiest of the earth. 

The banquet hath its hour, 
Its feverish hour of mirth, and song, and wine; 

There comes a day for griefs o'erwhelming 
power, 
A time for softer tears — but all are thine. 

Youth and the opening rose 
May ook like things too glorious for decay. 

And smile at thee — but thou art not of those 
That wait the ripened bloom to seize their prey. 

Leaves have their time to fall. 
And flowers to wither at the north-wind's breath, 
I And stars to set — but all, 

I Thou hast all seasons for thine own, oh ! Death. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



279 



We know when moons shall wane, 
When summer-birds from far shall cross the sea, 

Wlien autumn's hue shall tinge the golden 
grain — 
But who shall teach us when to look for thee 1 

fe it when Spring's first gale 
Comes forth to whisper where the violets lie 1 

Is it when roses in our paths grow pale 7 — 
They have one season — all are ours to die ! 

Thou art where billows foam. 
Thou art where music melts upon the air ; 

Thou art around us in our peaceful home, 
And the world calls us forth — and thou art there. 

Thou art where friend meets friend, 
Beneath the shadow of the elm to rest — 

Thou art where foe meets foe, and trumpets 
rend 
The skies, and swords beat down the princely crest. 

Leaves have their time to fall. 
And flowers to wither at the north-wind's breath. 

And stars to set — but all. 
Thou hast all seasons for thine own, oh ! Death. 



THE RELEASE OF TASSO. 

There came a bard to Rome ; he brought a lyre 
Of sounds to peal through Rome's triumphant sky, 
To mourn a hero on his funeral pyre, 
Or greet a conqueror with its war-notes high ; 
For on each chord had fallen the gift of lire, 
The living breath of Power and Victory — 
Yet he, its lord, the sovereign city's guest. 
Sighed but to flee away, and be at rest. 

He brought a spirit whose ethereal birth 
Was of the loftiest, and whose haunts had been 
Amidst the marvels and the pomps of earth, 
Wild fairy-bowers, and groves of deathle.ss green, 
And fields, where mail-clad bo.soms prove their 

worth. 
When flashing sword.s light up the stormy scene — 
He brought a weary heart, a wasted frame, — 
The Child of Visions from a dungeon came. 

On the blue waters, as in joy they sweep, 

With starlight floating o'er their swells and falls. 

On the blue waters of the Adrian deep, 

His numbers had been sung — and in the halls. 

Where, through rich foliage if a sunbeam peep, 

It seems Heaven's wakening to the sculptured 

walls, — 
Had princes listened to those lof\y strains. 
While the high soul they burst from, pined in chains. 

And in the summer-gardens, where the spray 
Of founts, far-glancing from their marble bed, 



Rains on the flowering myrtles in its play, 
And the sweet limes, and glassy leaves that spread 
Round the deep golden citrons — o'er his lay 
Dark eyes, dark, soft, Italian eyes had shed 
Warm tears, fast-glittering in that sun, whose light 
Was a forbidden glory to his sight. 

Oh ! if it be that wizard sign and spell, 
And talisman had power of old to bind, 
In the dark chambers of some cavern-cell, 
Or knotted oak, the spirits of the wind, 
Things of the lightning-pinion, wont to dwell 
High o'er the reach of eagles, and to find 
Joy in the rush of storms — even such a doom 
Was that high minstrel's in his dungeon-gloom. 

But he was free at last ! — the glorious land 
Of the white Alps and pine-crowned Apennines, 
Along whose shore the sapphire seas expand. 
And the wastes teem with myrtle, and the shrines 
Of long-forgotten gods from Nature's hand 
Receive bright offerings still ; with all its vines, 
And rocks, and ruins, clear before him lay — 
The seal was taken from the founts of day. 

The winds came o'er his cheek ; the soft winds, 

blending 
All summer-sounds and odours in their sigh; 
The orange-groves waved round; the hills were 

sending 
Their bright streams down; the free birds darting 

by, 

And the blue festal heavens above him bending. 
As if to fold a world where none could die ! 
And who was he that looked upon these things 1 
— If but of earth, yet one whose thoughts were 
wings 

To bear him o'er creation! and whose mind 
Was as an air-harp, wakening to the sway 
Of sunny Nature's breathings unconfined. 
With all the ni3'stic harmonies that lay 
Far ill the slumber of its chords enshrined, 
Till the light breeze went thrilling on its way. 
— There was no sound that wandered through 

the sky. 
But told him secrets in its melody. 

Was the deep forest lonely unto him 

With all its whispering leaves 1 Each dell and 

glade 
Teemed with such forms as on the moss-clad brim 
Of fountains, in their sfiarry grottoes, played. 
Seen by the Greek of yore through twilight dim, 
Or misty noontide in the laurel-shade. 
— There is no solitude on earth so deep 
As that where man decrees that man should weep! 

But oh ! the life in Nature's green domains, 
The breathing sense of joy! where flowers are 
springing 



280 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



By starry thousands, on ths slopes and plains, 
And tlie gray rocks — and all the arched woods 

ringing, 
And the young branches trembling to tiie strains 
Of wild-born creatures, through the sunshine 

winging 
Their fearless flight — and sylvan echoes round, 
Mingling all tones to one Eolian sound ; 

And the glad voice, the laughing voice of streams. 

And the low cadence of the silvery sea. 

And reed-notes from the mountains, and the 

beams 
Of the warm sun — all these are for the free ! 
And they were his once more, the bard, whose 

dreams 
Their spirit still had haunted. — Could it be 
That he had borne the chain 1 — oh! who shall 

dare 
To say how much man's heart uncrushed may 

bearl 

So deep a root hath hope! — but wo for this, 

Our frail mortality, that aught so bright, 

So almost burthened with excess of bliss. 

As the rich hour which back to summer's light 

Calls the worn captive, with the gentle kiss 

Of winds, and gush of waters, and the sight 

Of the green earth, must so be bought with j'cars 

Of the heart's fever, parching up its tears ; 

And feeding a slow fire on all its powers. 
Until the boon for which we gasp in vain, 
If hardly won at length, too late made ours 
When the soul's wing is broken, comes like rain 
Withheld till evening, on the stately flowers 
Which withered in the noontide, ne'er again 
To hfl; their heads in glory. — So doth Earth 
Breathe on her gifts, and melt away their worth. 

The sailor dies in sight of that green shore. 
Whose fields, in slumbering beauty, seemed to lie 
On the deep's foam, amidst its hollow roar 
Called up to sunlight by his fantasy — 
And, when the shining desert-mists that wore 
The lake's bright semblance, have been all passed 

by, 
The pilgrim sinks beside the fountain-wave. 
Which flashes from its rock, too late to save. 

Or if we live, if that, too dearly bought. 

And made too precious liy long hopes and fears. 

Remains our own — love, darkened and o'er- 

wrought 
By memory of privation, love, which wears 
And casts o'er life a troubled hue of thought. 
Becomes the shadow of our closing years, 
Making it almost misery to possess 
Aught, watched with such unquiet tenderness. 
Such unto him, the bard, the worn and wild, 
And sick with hope deferred, from v^'hom the sky. 



With all its clouds in burning glory piled, 
Had been shut out by long captivity ; 
Such, freedom was to Tasso. — As a child 
Is to the mother, whose foreboding eye 
In its too radiant glance, from day to day, 
Reads that which calls the brightest first away. 
And he became a wanderer — in whose breast 
Wild fear, wliich, e'en when every sense doth 

sleep. 
Clings to the burning heart, a wakeful guest, 
Sat brooding as a spirit, raised to keep 
Its gloomy vigil of intense unrest 
O'er treasures, burthening life, and buried deep 
In cavern-tomb, and sought, through shades and' 

stealth, 
By some pale mortal, trembling at his wealth. 
But wo for those who trample o'er a mind ! 
A deathless thing. — They know not what they do, 
Or what they deal with ! — Man perchance may 

bind 
Tiie flower his step hath bruised ; or light anew 
The torch he quenches; or to music wind 
Again the lyre-string from his touch that flew — 
But for the soul! — oh! tremble, and beware 
To lay rude hands upon God's mysteries there! 

For blindness wraps that world — our touch may 

turn 
Some balance, fearfully and darkly hung, 
Or put out some briglit spark, whose ray should 

burn 
To point the way a thousand rocks among — 
Or break some subtle chain, which none discern, 
Though binding down the terrible, the strong, 
Th' o'ersvveeping passions — which to loose on life 
Is to set free the elements for strife ! 

Who then to power and glory shall restore 
That which our evil rashness hath undone 1 
Who unto mystic harmony once more 
Attune those viewless chords 1 — There is but One ! 
He that through dust the stream of life can pour, 
The Mighty and the Merciful alone! 
— Yet oft His paths have midnight fortheir saade — 
He leaves to man the ruin man hath made ! — 



TASSO AND HIS SISTER. 



" Devant vous est SoiTente ; la diimouroit la soeiir de Tasse, 
quand il vint en p616rin d6mander a cette obscure amie, un 

asile centre I'injustice des princes Ses longues douleurs 

avoient presque 6gar6 sa raison ; il ne lui restoit plus que du 
g^nie." Corinne. 

She sat, where on each wind that sighed 

The citron's breath went by; 
While the deep gold of eventide 

Burned in the Italian sky. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



2S1 



Her bower was one where daylight's close 

Full oil sweet laughter found, 
As thence the voice of cliildhood rose 

To the high vineyards round. 

But still and thoughtful, at her knee, 

Her children .stood that hour, 
Their bursts of son^, and dancing glee. 

Hushed as by words of power. 
With bright, fixed, wondering eyes that gaze' 

Up to their mother's face; 
With brows through parting ringlets raised, 

They stood in silent grace. 

While she — yet something o'er her look 

Of mournfulncss was .spread — 
Forth from a poet's magic book 

The glorious numbers read; 
The proud, undying lay, which poured 

Its light on evil years ; 
His o( the gifted Pen and Sword,* 

The triumph and the tears. 

She read of fair Erminia's flight. 

Which Venice once might hear 
Sung on her glittering seas at night, 

By many a gondolier ; 
Of him she read, who broke the charm 

That wrapt the myrtle grove; 
Of Godfrey's deeds, of Tancrcd's arm, 

That slew his Paynim love. 

Young cheeks around that bright page glowed, 

Young holy hearts were stirred; 
And the meek tears of woman flowed 

Fast o'er each burning word. 
And sounds of breeze, and fount, and leaf, 

Came sweet each pause between ; 
When a strange voice of sudden grief 

Burst on the gentle scene. 

The mother turned — a way-worn man, 

In pilgrim garb stood nigh, 
Of stately mien, yet wild and wan, 

Of proud, yet restless eye. 
But drops that would not stay for pride, 

From that dark C3'e gushed free, 
As pressing his pale brow, ho cried, 

"Forgotten! e'en by thee! 

*' Am I so changed"? — and yet we two 

Oft hand in hand have played — 
This brow hath been all bathed in dew. 

From wreaths which thou hast made. 
We have knelt down and said one prayer. 

And sung one vesper strain — 
My thoughts are dim with clouds of care — 

Tell me those words again! 



" Life hath been heavy on my head ; 

I come, a stricken deer. 
Bearing the heart, 'midst crowds that bled. 

To bleed in stillness here." 
— She gazed — till thoughts that long had slept. 

Shook all her thrilling frame — 
She fell upon his neck, and wept. 

And breathed her brother's name. 

Her brother^s name! — and who was he. 

The weary one, th' unknown. 
That came, the bitter world to flee, 

A stranger to his own'.' 
— He was the bard of gifts divine. 

To sway the hearts of men; 
He of the song for Salem's shrine. 

He of the Sword and Pen! 



* It is scarcely necessary to recall the well known Italian 
saymg, thalTasso with li'n sword anJ pen wa.» superior to all 
men. 



TO THE POET WORDSWORTH. 

Think is a strain to read amongst the hills, 

The old and full of voices — by the source 

Of some free stream, whose gladdening presence 

fills 
The solitude with sound — for in its course 
Even such is thy deep song, that seems a part 
Of those high scenes, a fountairi from their heart. 

Or its calm spirit fitly may be taken 

To the still breast, in some sweet garden-bowers, 

Where summer winds each tree's low tones 

awaken. 
And bud and bell with changes mark the hours. 
There let thy thoughts be with me, while the day 
Sinks with a golden and serene decay. 

Or by some hearth where happy faces meet. 
When night hath hushed the woods with all their 

birds. 
There, from some gentle voice, that lay were sweet 
As antique music, linked with household words. 
While, in pleased murmurs, woman's lip might 

move. 
And the raised eye of childhood shine in love. 

Or where the shadows of dark solemn yews 
Brood silently o'er some lone burial-ground. 
Thy verse hath power that brightly might difl'use 
A breath, a kindling, as of spring, around. 
From its own glow of hope and courage high. 
And steadfast faith's victorious constancy. 

True bard and holy !— thou art e'en as one 
Who, by some secret gift of soul or eye. 
In every spot beneath the smiling sun. 
Sees where the springs of living waters lie — 
Unseen awhile they sleep — till, touched by thee. 
Bright, healthful waves flow forth, to each glad 
wanderer free! 



282 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



THE SONG OF THE CURFEW. 

Hark! from the dim church-tower, 

The deep, slow curfew's chime ! 

A heavy sound unto hall and bower, 

In England's olden time! 
Sadly 't was heard by him who came 
From the fields of his toil at night, 
And who might not see his own hearth's flame 
In his children's eyes make light. 

Sadly and sternly heard 
As it quenched the wood-fire's glow. 
Which had cheered the board, with the mirthful 
word, 
And the red wine's foaming flow 
Until that sullen, booming knell, 

Flung out from every fane, 
On harp, and lip, and spirit fell. 
With a weight, and with a chain. 

, Wo for the wanderer then 

In the wild-deer's forests far! 
No cottage lamp, to the haunts of men. 

Might guide him as a star. 
And wo for him, whose wakeful soul. 

With lone aspirings filled. 
Would have lived o'er some immortal scroll. 
While the sounds of earth were stilled. 

And yet a deeper wo, 

For the watchers by the bed, 
Where the fondly loved, in pain lay low, 

And rest forsook the head. 
For the mother, doomed unseen to keep 

By the dying babe her place, 
And to feel its flitting pulse, and weep. 
Yet not behold its face ! 

Darkness, in chiefl;ain's hall ! 
Darkness, in peasant's cot ! 
While Freedom, under that shadowy pall. 

Sat mourning o'er her lot. 
Oh ! the fireside's peace we well may prize. 

For blood hath flowed like rain. 
Poured forth to make sweet sanctuaries 
Of England's homes again ! 

Heap the yule-fagots high. 

Till the red light fills the room ! 
It is home's own hour, when the stormy sky 

Grows thick with evening gloom. 
Gather ye round the holy hearth. 

And by its gladdening blaze. 
Unto thankful bliss we will change our mirth, 
With a thought of the olden davs. 



HYMN FOR CHRISTMAS. 

Oh ! lovely voices of the sky 

Which hymned the Saviour's birth, 
Are ye not singing still on high. 
Ye that sang, " Peace on earth 1" 
To us yet speak the strains 

AVherewith, in time gone by, 
Ye blessed the Syrian swains, 
Oh ! voices of the sky ! 

Oh ! clear and shining light, whose beams 

That hour Heaven's glory shed. 
Around the palms, and o'er the streams. 
And on the shepherd's head. 
Be near, through life and death, 

As in that holiest night 
Of hope, and joy, and faith — 
Oh ! clear and shining light ! 

Oh ! star which led to Him, whose love 

Brought down man's ransom free — 
Where art thou? — 'midst the host above. 
May we still gaze on thee 1 
In Heaven thou art not set. 

Thy rays earth may not dim , 
Send them to guide us yet, 
Oh ! star which led to Him ! 



CHRIST STILLING THE TEMPEST. 

" But the ship was now in the midst of the sea, tossed with 
waves; for the wind was contrary." 

St. Matthew, xiv. ^A. 

Fear was within the tossing bark. 

When stormy winds grew loud ; 
And waves came rolling high and dark, 

And the tall mast was bowed. 

And men stood breathless in their dread, 

And baffled in their skill — 
But One was there, who rose and said 

To the wild sea, " Be still !" 

And the wind ceased — it ceased 1 — that word 

Passed through the gloomy sky ; 
The troubled billows knew their Lord, 

And sank beneath his eye. 

And slumber settled on the deep. 

And silence on the blast, 
As when the righteous falls asleep, 

When death's fierce throes are past. 

Thou that didst rule the angry hour. 

And tame the tempest's mood — 
Oh ! send thy spirit forth in power, 

O'er our dark gouls to brood ! 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



283 



Thou that didst bow the billow's pride, 

Thy mandates to fulfil — 
Speak, speak, to passion's raging tide, 

Speak and say — " Peace, be still !" 



CHRIST'S AGONY IN THE GARDEN. 

He knelt — the Saviour knelt and prayed. 

When but His Father's eye 
Looked through the lonely garden's shade. 

On that dread agony ! 
The Lord of all, above, beneath, 
Was bowed with sorrow unto death. 

The sun set in a fearful hour, 

The skies might well grow dim, 
When this mortality had power 

So to o'ershadow Him ! 
That He who gave man's breath might know. 
The very depths of human wo. 

He knew them all— the doubt, the strife. 

The faint, perplexing dread, 
The mists that hang o'er parting life, 

All darkened round His head ! 
And the Deliverer knelt to pray — 
Yet passed it not, that cup, away. 

It passed not — though the stormy wave 

Had sunk beneath His tread ; 
It passed not — though to Him the grave 

Had yielded up its dead. 
But there was sent Him from on high 
A gift of strength, for man to die.* 

And was His mortal hour beset 

AVith anguish and dismay 1 
— How may we meet our conflict yet, 

In the dark, narrow way 7 
How, but through Him, that path who trod 1 
Save, or we perish, Son of God ! 



THE SUNBEAM. 

Thou art no lingerer in monarch's hall, 
A joy thou art, and a wealth to all ! 
A bearer of hope unto land and sea — 
Sunbeam! what gift hath the world like theel 

Thou art walking the billows, and Ocean smiles — 
Thou hast touched with glory his tliousand isles — 
Thou hast lit up the ships, and the feathery foam, 
And gladdened the sailor, like words from home. 



To the solemn depths of the forest shades, 
Thou art streaming on through their green arcades, 
And the quivering leaves that have caught thy 

glow, 
Like fire-flies glance to the pools below. 

I looked on the mountains — a vapour lay 
Folding their heights in its dark array; 
Thou brakcst forth — and the mist became 
A crown and a mantle of living flame. 

I looked on the peasant's lowly cot — 
Something of sadness had wrapt the spot; 
But a gleam of thee on its casement fell. 
And it laughed into beauty at that bright spell. 

To the earth's wild places a guest thou art, 
Flushing the waste like the rose's heart ; 
And thou scornest not, from thy pomp to shed 
A tender light on the ruin's head. 

Thou tak'st through the dim church-aisle thy way. 
And its pillars from twilight flash forth to day. 
And its high pale tombs, with their trophies old, 
Are bathed in a flood as of burning gold. 

And thou turnest not from the humblest grave. 
Where a flower to the sighing winds may wave; 
Thou scatterest its gloom like the dreams of rest, 
Thou sleepest in love on its grassy breast. 

Sunbeam of summer, oh ! what is like theel 
Hope of the wilderness, joy of tiie sea ! 
— One thing is like thee, to mortals given, — 
The faith, touching all things with hues of Heaven, 



" " And there appeai'ed an angel unto him from heaven, 
sticngthening him." 

St. Luke, xxii. 4-3. 



THE TRAVELLER AT THE SOURCE 
OF THE NILE. 

In sunset's light o'er Afric thrown, 

A wanderer proudly stood 
Beside the well-spring, deep and lone, 

Of Egypt's awful flood ; 
The cradle of that mighty birth, 
So long a hidden thing to earth. 

He heard its life's first murmuring sound, 

A low mysterious tone ; 
A music sought, but never found 

By kings and warriors gone ; 
Pie listened— and his heart beat high— 
That was the song of victory ! 

The rapture of a conqueror's mood 

Rushed burning through his frame,' 

The depths of that green solitude 
Its torrents could not tame. 

Though stillness lay, with eve's last smile, 

Round those calm fountains of the Nile. 



284 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



Night came with stars : — across his soul 
There swept a sudden change, 

E'en at the pilgrim's glorious goal, 
A shadow dark and strange, 

Breathed from the thought, so swift to fall 

O'er triumph's hour — And is this all ? 

No more than this ! — what seemed it now 
First by that spring to stand 1 

A thousand streams of lovelier flow 
Bathed his own mountain land ! 

Whence, far o'er waste and ocean track. 

Their wild sweet voices called him back. 

They called him back to many a glade, 
His childhood's haunt of play. 

Where brightly through the beechen shade 
Their waters glanced away ; 

They called him, with their sounding waves, 

Back to his fathers' hills and graves. 

But darkly mingling with the thought 

Of each familiar scene. 
Rose up a fearful vision, fraught 

With all that lay between ; 
The Arab's lance, the desert's gloom. 
The whirling sands, the red simoom ! 

Where was the glow of power and pride 1 

The spirit born to roam? 
His weary heart within him died 

With yearnings for his home ; 
All vainly struggling to repress 
That gush of painful tenderness. 

He wept — the stars of Afric's heaven 

Beheld his bursting tears, 
E'en on that spot where fate had given 

The meed of toiling years. 
— Oh, happiness ! how far we flee 
Thine own sweet paths in search of thee !♦ 



THE VAUDOIS VALLEYS. 

Yes, thou hast met the sun's last smile. 
From the haunted hills of Rome ; 

By many a bright ^gean isle, 
Thou hast seen the billows foam : 

From the silence of the Pyramid 
Thou hast watched the solemn flow 

Of the Nile, that with its waters hid 
The ancient realm below : 

Thy heart hath burned as shepherds sung 

Some wild and warlike strain, 
Where the Moorish horn once proudly rung 

Through the pealing hills of Spain : 



* The arrival of Bruce at what lie considered to be the 
source of the Nile, was followed almost immediately by feel- 
ings thus suddenly fluctuating from triumph to despondence 
-^ee his Travels in Abyssinia. 



And o'er the lonely Grecian streams 
Thou hast heard the laurels moan, 

With a sound yet murmuring in thy dreams 
Of the glory that is gone. 

But go thou to the pastoral vales 

Of the Alpine mountains old. 
If thou wouldst hear immortal tales 

By the wind's deep whispers told ! 

Go, if thou lovest the soil to tread. 

Where man hath nobly striven, 
And life, like incense, hath been shed. 

An offering unto Heaven. 

For o'er the snows, and round the pines, 

Hath swept a noble flood ; 
The nurture of the peasant's vines 

Hath been the martyr's blood ! 

A spirit, stronger than the sword, 

And loftier than despair, 
Through all the heroic region poured, 

Breathes in the generous air. 

A memory clings to every, steep 

Of long-enduring faith, 
And the sounding streams glad record keep 

Of courage unto death. 

Ask of the peasant where his sires 

For truth and freedom bled, 
Ask, where were lit the torturing fires, 

Where lay the holy dead ; 

And he will tell thee, all around. 

On fount, and turf, and stone. 
Far as the chamois' foot can bound, 

Their ashes have been sown ! 

Go, when the sabbath bell is heard* 

Up through the wilds to float, 
When the dark old woods and caves are stirred 

To gladness by the note ; 

When forth, along their thousand rills, 

The mountain people come. 
Join thou their worship on those hills 

Of glorious martyrdom. 

And while the song of praise ascends, 

And while the torrent's voice 
Like the swell of many an organ blends, 

Then let thy soul rejoice ! 



* See " Gilly's Researches amongst the Mountains of Pied- 
mont," for an interesting description of a sabbath day in the 
upper regions of the Vaudois. The inhabitants of those Pro- 
testant valleys, vho, like the Swiss, repair with their flocks 
and herds to the summits of the hills during the summer, 
are followed thither by their pastors, and at that season of the 
year, assemble on that sacred day, to worship in the open air 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



285 



Rejoice, that human heart, through scorn, 
Through shame, through death, made strong, 

Before the rocks and heavens have borne 
Witness of God so long! 



THE SONGS OP OUR FATHERS. 



-" Sing aloud 



Old songs, the precious music of the heart." 

Wordsworth. 



Sing them upon the sunny hills, 

When days are long and bright. 
And the blue gleam of shining rills 

Is loveliest to the sight. 
Sing them along the misty moor. 

Where ancient hunters roved, 
And swell them through the torrent's roar — 

The songs our fathers loved ! 

The songs tTieir souls rejoiced to hear 

When harps were in the hall, 
And each proud note made lance and spear 

Thrill on the bannered wall : 
The songs that through our valleys green 

Sent on from age to age. 
Like his own river's voice, have been 

The peasant's heritage. 

The reaper sings them when the vale 

Is filled with plumy sheaves ; 
The woodman, by the starlight pale 

Cheered homeward through the leaves: 
And unto them the glancing oars 

A joyous measure keep. 
Where the dark rocks that crest our shores 

Dash back the foaming deep. 

So let it be ! — a light they shefl ' 

O'er each old fount and grove; 
A memory of the gentle dead, 

A spell of huge ring love : 
Murmuring the names of mighty men, 

They bid our streams roll on, 
And Hnk high thoughts to every glen 

Where valiant deeds were done. 

Teach them your children round the hearth, 

When evening-fires burn clear. 
And in the fields of harvest mirth. 

And on the hills of deer ! 
So shall each unforgotten word. 

When far those loved ones roam, 
Call back the hearts that once it stirred. 

To childhood's holy home. 

The green woods of their native land 

Shall whisper in the strain, 
The voices of their household band 

Shall sweetly speak again ; 
28 



The heathery heights in vision rise 
Where Uke the stag they roved — 

Sing to your sons those melodies, 
The songs your fathers loved. 



THE BURIAL OF WILLIAM THE CON- 
aUEROR. 

Lowly upon his bier 

The royal conqueror lay, 
Baron and chief stood near, 

Silent in war-array. 

Down the long minster's aisle. 
Crowds mutely gazing streamed, 

Altar and tomb, the while. 

Through mists of incense gleamed ; 

And by the torch's blaze 

The stately priest had said 
High words of power and praise, 

To the glory of the dead. 

They lowered him, with the sound 

Of requiems, to repose. 
When from the throngs around 

A solemn voice arose : 

" Forbear, forbear !" it cried, 

"In the holiest name forbear! 
He hath conquered regions wide, 

But he shall not slumber there. 

" By the violated hearth 

Which made way for yon proud shrine. 
By the harvests which this earth 

Hath borne to me and mine ; 

" By the home e'en here o'erthrown, 
On my children's native spot, — 
•. Hence! with his dark renown 
Cumber our birth-place not ! 

'• Will my sire's unransomed field 
O'er which your censers wave, 

To the buried spoiler yield 
Soft slumber in the grave 1 

" The tree before him fell 
Which we cherished many a year, 

But its deep root yet shall swell 
And heave against his bier. 

" The land that I have tilled. 

Hath yet its brooding breast 
With my home's white ashes filled — 

And it shall not give him rest. 

" Here each proud column's bed 
Hath been wet by weeping eyes — 

Hence ! and bestow your dead 
Where no wrong against him cries!" 



286 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



Shame glowed on each dark face 
Of those proud and steel-girt men, 

And they bought with gold a place 
For their leader's dust, e'en then. 

A little earth for him 

Whose banner flew so far ! 
And a peasant's tale could dim 

The name, a nation's star ! 

One deep voice thus arose 

From a heart which wrongs had riven- 
Oh ! who shall number those 

That were but heard in Heaven?* 



THE SOUND OF THE SEA. 

Thou art sounding on, thou mighty sea, 

For ever and the same ! 
The ancient rocks yet ring to thee, 

Whose thunders nought can tame. 

Oh! many a glorious voice is gone. 
From the rich bowers of earth. 

And hushed is many a lovely one 
Of mournfulness or mirth. 



The Dorian flute that sighed of yore 

Along thy wave, is still ; 
The harp of Judah peals no more 

On Zion's awful hill. 



^ And Memnon's lyre hath lost the chord 

\That breathed the mystic tone, 
nd the songs, at Rome's high tritnttphS'poured, 
Are with her eagles flown. 

And mute the Moorish horn, that rang 

O'er stream and mountain free, 
And the hymn the leagued Crusaders sang, 

Hath died in Galilee. 

But thou art swelling on, thou deep, 

Through many an olden clime, 
Thy billowy anthem, ne'er to sleep 

Until the close of time. 

Thou liflest up thy solemn voice 

To every wind and sky. 
And all our earth's green shores rejoice 

In that one harmony. 

It fills the noontide's calm profound, 

The sunset's heaven of gold ; 
And the still midnight hears the sound, 

E'en as when first it rolled. 



Let there be silence, deep and strange, 

Where sceptred cities rose! 
Thou speak'st of one who doth not change- 

— So may our hearts repose. 



OASABIANCA.* 

The boy stood on the burning deck, 

Whence all but him had fled ; 
The flame that lit the battle's wreck, 

Shone round him o'er the dead. 

Yet beautiful and bright he stood. 

As born to rule the storm ; 
A creature of heroic blood, 

A proud, though child-like form. 

The flames rolled on — he would not go, 

Without his father's word ; 
That father, faint in death below, 

His voice no longer heard. 

He called aloud — " Say, father, say 

If yet my task is done V 
He knew not that the chieftain lay 

Unconscious of his son. 

" Speak, Father!" once again he cried, 

" If I may yet be gone !" 
— And but the booming shots replied, 

And fast the flames rolled on. 

Upon his brow he felt their breath, 

And in his waving hair; 
And looked from that lone post of death, 

In still, yet brave despair. 

And shouted but once more aloud 

"My father! must I stayl" 
While o'er him fast through sail and shroud, 

The wreathing fires made way. 

They wrapt the ship in splendour wild, 

They caught the flag on high. 
And streamed above the gallant child, 

Like banners in the sky. 

There came a burst of thunder sound — 

The boy — oh ! where was he? 
— Ask of the winds that far around 

With fragments strewed the sea! 

With mast, and helm, and pennon fair, 
That well had borne their part — ^ 

But the noblest thing that perished there,\ 
Was that young faithful heart. \ 



Young Casablanca, a boy about thirteen years old, son to 
•For the particulars of this and other scarcely less remark- the admiral of tlie Orient, remained at his post (in the battle 
able circumstances which attended the obsequies of William, of the Nile), after the ship had taken fu-e, and all the guns hrtfl 
the Conqueror, see Sismondi's Histoire des Francais, vol. I been abandoned ; and perished in the explosion of the veseel, 
IV. p. 480. * when the flames had reached the powder. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



287 



THE ADOPTED CHILD. 

" Why wouldst thou leave me, oh ! gentle child 1 
Thy home on the mountam is bleak and wild, 
A straw-roofed cabin with lowly wall — 
Mine is a fair and pillared had, 
Where many an image of marble gleams. 
And the sunshine of picture for ever streams." 

"Oh! green is the turf where my brothers play, 
Through the long bright hours of the summer-day. 
They find the red cup-moss where they climb, 
And they chase the bee o'er the scented thyme ; 
And the rocks where the heath-flower blooms they 

know — 
Lady, kind lady, oh ! let me go." 

"Content thee, boy ! in my bower to dwell, 
Here are sweet sounds which thou lovest well; 
Flutes on the air in the stilly noon, 
Harps which the wandering breezes tune ; 
And the silvery wood- note of many a bird, 
Whose voice was ne'er in thy mountains heard." 

" My mother sings, at the twilight's fall, 
A song of the hills far more sweet than all ; 
She sings it under our own green tree. 
To the babe half slumbering on her knee ; 
I dreamt last night of that music low — 
Lady, kind lady ! oh ! let me go." 

" Thy mother is gone from her cares to rest, 
She hath taken the babe on her quiet breast ; 
Thou wouldst meet her footstep, my boy, no more, 
Nor hear her song at the cabin door. 
— Come thou with me to the vineyards nigh, 
And we'll pluck the grapes of the richest dye.'' 

" Is my mother gone from her home away'? 
— But I know that my brothers are there at play. 
I know they are gathering the fox-glove's bell, 
Or the long fern-leaves by the sparkHng well. 
Or they launch their boats where the bright 

streams flow — 
Lady, kind lady! oh! let me go." 

" Pair child ! thy brothers are wanderers now, 
They sport no more on the mountain's brow, 
They have left, the fern by the spring's green side, 
And the streams where the fairy barks were tried. 
— Be thou at peace in thy brighter lot, 
For thy cabin-home is a lonely spot." 

" Are they gone, all gone from the sunny hilH 
— But the bird and the blue-fly rove o'er it still, 
And the red-deer bound in their gladness free. 
And the turf is bent by the singing bee. 
And the waters leap, and the fresh winds blow — 
Lady, kind lady I oh ! let me go." 



THE DEPARTED. 



' Thou shall lie down 



With patriarchs of the infant world — with kinga, 
The powerful of the earth— the wi.<ie, the good, 
Fair fornxs, and hoary seers of ages pant, 

All in one mighty sepulchre." 

Bryant. 

And shrink ye from the way 
To the spirit's distant shore 1 
Earth's mightiest men, in armed array, 
Are thither gone before. 

The warrior kings, whose banner 
Flew far as eagles fly, 
They are gone where swords avail them not, 
From the feast of victory. 

And the seers, who sat of yore 
By orient palm or wave. 
They have passed with all their starry lore — 
Can ye still fear the grave 7 

— We fear, we fear! — the sunshine 
Is joyous to behold, 
And we reck not of the buried kings, 
Or the awful seers of old. 

Ye shrink! — the bards whose lays 
Have made your deep hearts bum. 
They have left; the sun, and the voice of praise, 
For the land whence none return : 

And the lovely, whose memorial 
Is the verse that can not die, 
They too are gone with their glorious bloom. 
From the gaze of human eye. 

Would ye not join that throng 
Of the earth's departed flowers, 
And the masters of the mighty song 
In their far and fadeless bowers? 

Those songs are high and holy, 
But they vanquish not our fear ; 
Not from our path those flowers are gone — 
We fain would linger here ! 

Linger then yet awhile, 
As the last leaves on the bough ! 
— Ye have loved the gleam of many a smile 
That is taken from you now. 

There have been sweet singing voices 
In your walks that now are still ; 
There are seats left void in your earthly homes 
Which none again may fill. 

Soft eyes are seen no more 

That made spring-time in your heart ; 
Kindred and friends are gone before, — 
And ye still fear to part "J 



288 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



— We fear not now, we fear not ! 

Though the way through darkness bends ; 
Our souls are strong to follow them, 
Our own familiar friends ! 



THE BREEZE FROM LAND. 



' As when to tliem who sail 



Beyoml the Cape of Hope, and now are past 

Mozambic, off at sea north-east winds blow 

Sabean odours from the spicy shore 

Of Araby the Blest; with such delay 

AVell pleased they slack their course, and many a league. 

Cheered with the gi-ateful smell, old Ocean smiles. 

Paradise Lost. 



Joy is upon the lonely seas, 

When Indian forests pour 
Forth to the billow and the breeze 

Their fragrance from the shore ; 
Joy, when the soil air's glowing sigh 
Bears on the breath of Araby. 

Oh! welcome are the winds that tell 

A wanderer of the deep 
Where far away the jasmines dwell, 

And A\here the myrrh-trees weep ! 
Blessed, on the sounding surge and foam, 
Are tidings of the citron's home ! 

The sailor at the helm they meet, 

And hope his bosom stirs, 
Upsprijiging, 'midst the waves to greet 

The fair earth's messengers, 
That woo him, from the mournful main, 
Back to her glorious bowers again. 

They woo him, whispering lovely tales 

Of many a flowering glade. 
And fount's bright gleam in island-vales 

Of golden-fruited shade ; 
Across his lone ship's wake they bring 
A vision and a glow of spring ! 

And oh ! ye masters of the lay ! 

Come not e'en thus your songs, 
That meet us on life's weary way 

Amidst her toiling throngs 1 
Yes ! o'er the spirit thus they bear 
A current of celestial air ! 

Their power is from the brighter clime 

That in our birth hath part, 
Their tones are of the world which time 

Sears not within the heart ; 
They tell us of the li\'ing light 
In its green places ever bright. 



Tltey call us with a voice divine 

Back to our early love. 
Our vows of youth at many a shrine 

Whence far and soon we rove : 
— Welcome, high thought and holy strain. 
That make us Truth's and Heaven's again!* 



AN HOUR OF ROMANCE. 

There were thick leaves above me and around, 
And low sweet sighs, like those of childhood's sleep, 
Amidst their dimness, and a fitful sound 
As of sort showers on water — dark and deep 
Lay the oak shadows o'er the turf, so still, 
They seemed but pictured glooms — a hidden rill, 
Made music, such as haunts us in a dream, 
Under the fern-tufts ; and a tender gleam 
Of soft green light, as by the glow-worm shed, 
Came pouring through the woven beech-boughs 

down. 
And steeped the magic page wherein I read 
Of royal chivalry and old renown, 
A tale of Palestine.! — Meanvv'hile the bee 
Swept past me with a tone of summer hours, 
A drowsy bugle, wafting thoughts of flowers, 
Blue skies, and amber sunshine — brightly free. 
On tilmy wings the purple dragon-fly 
Shot glancing like a fairy javelin by; 
And a sweet voice of sorrow told the dell 
Where sat the lone wood pigeon. 

But ere long, 
All sense of these things faded, as the spell. 
Breathing from that high gorgeous tale, grew strong 
On my chained soul — 't was not the leaves I heard ; 
— A Syrian wind the lion-banner stirred, 
Through its proud floating folds — 't was not the 

brook. 
Singing in secret through its grassy glen — 
A wild shrill trumpet of the Saracen 
Pealed from the desert's lonely heart, and shook 
The burning air.— Like clouds when winds are high. 
O'er glittering sands flew steeds of Araby, 
And tents rose up, and sudden lance and spear 
Flashed where a fountain's diamond wave lay cleeur, 
Shadowed by graceful palm-trees. — Then the shout 
Of merry England's joy swelled freely out. 
Sent through an Eastern heaven, whose glorious 

hue 
Made shields dark mirrors to its depths of blue ; 
And harps were there — I heard their sounding 

strings, 
As the waste echoed to the mirth of kings. 



• Written immediately after reading the " Remarks on 
the Character and Writings of Milton," in the Christian Ex 
aminer. 

t The Talisman— Talcs of the Crusadeis. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



289 



The bright masque faded— unto life's worn track 
What called me, from its flood of glory, back 7 
—A voice of happy childhood !— and they passed, 
Banner, and harp, and Paynim trum[)et's blast- 
Yet might I scarce bewail the vision gone, 
My heart so leapt to that sweet laughter's tone. 



EVENING PRAYER AT A GIRLS' 
SCHOOL. 



•' Now in thy youth, beseech of Him, 

Who giveth, upbraiding not, 
That his light in thy heart become not dim, 

And his love be unforgot ; 
And thy God, in the darkest of days, will be 
Greenness, and beauty, and strength to thee." 

Bernard Barton. 



HcsH ! 't is a holy hour — the quiet room 

Seems like a temple, while yon soft lany) sheds 
A faint and starry radiance, through the gloom 
And the sweet stillness, down on bright young 
heads, 
With all their clustering locks, untouched by care. 
And bowed, as flowers are bowed with night — in 
prayer. 

Gaze on, — 't is lovely ! — childhood's lip and cheek, 
Mantling beneath its earnest brow of thought — 

Gaze — yet what seest thou in those fair, and meek, 
And fragile things, as but for sunshine wrought ? 

— Thou seest what grief must nurture for the sky. 

What death must fashion for eternity ! 

Oh I joyous creatures, that will sink to rest. 
Lightly, when thosp pure orisons are done. 

As birds with slumber's honey-dew oppressed, 
'Midst the dim folded leaves, at set of sun — 

Lift up your hearts ! — though yet no sorrow lies 

Dark in the summer-heaven of those clear eyes ; 

Though fresh within your breasts th' untroubled 
springs 

Of hope make melody where'er ye tread ; 
And o'er your sleep bright shadows, from the wings 

Of spirits visiting but youth, be spread ; 
Yet in those flute-like voices, mingling low, 
Is woman's tenderness — how soon her wo ! 

Her lot is on you — silent tears to weep. 
And patient smiles to wear through suffering's 
hour. 

And sumless riches, from Affection's deep. 
To pour on broken reeds — a wasted shower ! 

And to make idols, and to find them clay. 

And to bewail that worship— therefore pray ! 



Her lot is on you — to be found untired. 
Watching the stars out by the bed of pain, 

With a pale cheek, and yet a brow inspired. 
And a true heart of hope, though hope be vain. 

Meekly to bear with wrong, to cheer decay, 

And oh! to love through all things — therefore 
pray! 

And take the thought of this calm vesper time, 
With its low murmuring sounds and silvery 
light. 

On through the dark days fading from their prime. 
As a sweet dew to keep your souls from blight. 

Earth will forsake — oh ! happy to have given 

Th' unbroken heart's first fragrance unto Heaven ! 



THE INVOCATION. 

WRITTEN AFTER THE DEATH OF A SFSTER-IN-LAW, 

Answer me, burning stars of night ! 

Where is the spirit gone. 
That past the reach of human sight, 

Even as a breeze, hath flown 1 
— And the stars answered me — " We roll 

In light and power on high, 
But, of the never-dying soul, 

Ask things that can not die !" 

Oh ! many toned and chainless wind ! 

Thou art a wanderer free ; 
Tell me if tliou its place canst find. 

Far over mount and seal 
— And the wind murmured in reply, 

" The blue deep I have crossed, 
And met its barks and billows high, 

But not what thou hast lost!" 

Yc clouds that gorgeously repose 

Around the setting sun. 
Answer ! have ye a home for those 

Whose earthly race is run 1 
The bright clouds answered — " We depart, 

We vanish from the sky ; 
Ask what is deathless in thy heart 

For that which can not die !" 

Speak, then, thou voice of God within ! 

Thou of the deep low tone ! 
Answer me through life's restless din. 

Where is the spirit flown? 
— And the voice answered — " Be thou still 

Enough to know is given ; 
Clouds, wnds, and stars their task fulfil, 

Thine is to trust in Heaven !" ' 



290 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



LINES 

WRITTEN IN A HERMITAGE ON THE SEA-SHORE. 

O WANDERER ! would thy heart forget 
Each earthly passion and regret, 
And would thy wearied spirit rise 
To commune with its native skies ; 
Pause for awhile, and deem it sweet 
To linger in this calm retreat ; 
And give thy cares, thy griefs, a short suspense, 
Amidst wild scenes of lone magnificence. 

Unmixed with aught of meaner tone, 
Here nature's voice is heard alone : 
When the loud storm, in wrathful hour. 
Is rushing on its wing of power, 
And spirits of the deep awake. 
And surges foam, and billows break, 
And rocks and ocean-caves around. 
Reverberate each awful sound ; 
That mighty voice, with all its dread control. 
To loftiest thought shall wake thy thrilling soul. 

But when no more the sea- winds rave, 
When peace is brooding on the wave, 
And from earth, air, and ocean rise 
No sounds but plaintive melodies : 
Soothed by their softly mingling swell. 
As daylight bids the world farewell, 
The rustling wood, the dying breeze, 
The faint, low rippling of the seas, 
A tender calm shall steal upon thy breast, 
A gleam reflected from the realms of rest. 

Is thine a heart the world hath stung, 
Friends have deceived, neglect hath wrung! 
Hast thou some grief that none may know, 
Some lonely, secret, silent wo 1 
Or have thy fond affections fled 
From earth to slumber with the dead 1 
Oh ! pause awhile — the world disown, 
And dwell with nature's self alone ! 
And though no more she bids arise 
Thy soul's departed energies, 
And though thy joy of life is o'er, 
Beyond her magic to restore ; 
Yet shall her spells o'er every passion steal, 
And sooth the wounded heart they can not heal. 



THE DEATH-DAY OF KORNER.* 

A SONG for the death-day of the brave — 

A song of pride ! 
Thej^outh went down to a hero's grave, 

With the Sword, his bride.t 



• On reading part of a letter from Korner's father, address- 
ed to Mr. Richardson, the translator of his works, in which 
he speaks of " The death-day of his son." 

t See the Sword-song, composed on the morning of his 
death. 



He went, with his noble heart unworn, 

And pure, and high, 
An eagle stooping from clouds of morn, 

Only to die ! 

He went with the Lyre, whose lofty tone 

Beneath his hand 
Had thrill'd to the name of his God alone, 

And his Father-land. 

And with all his glorious feehngs yet 

In their first glow. 
Like a southern stream that no frost hath met 

To chain its flow. 

A song for the death-day of the brave- 

A song of pride ! 
For him that went to a hero's grave, 

With the Sword, his bride. 

He hath left a voice in his trumpet-lays 

To turn the flight. 
And a guiding spirit for after days, 

Like a watch-fire's light. 

And a grief in his father's soul to rest; 

Midst all high thought, 
And a memory unto his mother's breast. 

With healing fraught. 

And a! name and fame above the blight 

Of earthly breath. 
Beautiful — beautiful and bright, 

In life and death ! 

A song for the death-day of the brave — 

A song of pride ! 
For him that went to a hero's grave. 

With the Sword, his bride ! 



INVOCATION. 

Hushed is the world in night and sleep, 

Earth, Sea, and Air, are still as death ; 

Too rude to break a calm so deep. 

Were music's faintest breath. 

Descend, bright Visions ! from aerial bowers. 

Descend to gild your own soft, silent hours. 

In hope or fear, in toil or pain. 
The weary day have mortals past. 
Now, dreams of bliss, be yours to reign. 
And all your spells around them cast ; 
Steal from their hearts the pang, their eyes the tear. 
And lift the veil that hides a brighter sphere. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



291 



Oh ! bear your softest balm to those, 
Who fondly, vainly, mourn the dead, 
To them that world of peace disclose, 
Where the bright soul is fled : 
Where Love, immortal in his native clime, 
Shall fear no pang from fate, no blight from time. 

Or to his loved, his distant land, 

On your light wings the exile bear ; 

To feel once more his heart expand, 

In his own genial mountain-air ; 
Hear the wild echoes well-known strains repeat. 
And bless each note, as heaven's own music sweet. 

But oh ! with Fancy's brightest ray, 
Blest dreams ! the bard's repose illume ; 
Bid forms of heaven around him play, 
And bowers of Eden bloom ! 
And waft his spirit to its native skies. 
Who finds no charms in life's realities. 

No voice is on the air of night. 
Through folded leaves no murmurs creep. 
Nor star nor moonbeam's trembling light 
Falls on the placid brow of sleep. 
Descend, bright visions, from your airy bower. 
Dark, silent, solemn, is your favourite hour. 



TO THE MEMORY OF GENERAL SIR 
E— D P— K— M. 

Brave spirit ! mourned with fond regret, 
Lost in life's pride, in valour's noon, 
Oh ! who could deem thy star should set 
So darkly and so soon 7 

Fatal, though bright, the fire of mind, 
Which marked and closed thy brief career, 
And the fair wreath, by Hope entwined, 
Lies withered on thy bier. 

The soldier's death hath been thy doom. 
The soldier's tear thy meed shall be ; 
Yet, son of war ! a prouder tomb 

Might Fate have reared for thee. 

Thou shouldst have died, O liigh-souled chief ! 
In those bright days of glory fled. 
When triumph so prevailed o'er grief, 

We scarce could mourn the dead. 

Noontide of fame! each tear-drop then 
Was worthy of a warrior's grave — 
When shall affection weep again 
So proudly o'er the brave? 

There, on the battle-fields of Spain, 
'Midst Roncesvalles' mountain-scene. 
Or on Vittoria's blood-red plain, 

Meet had thy death-bed been 



We mourn not that a hero's Ufe, 
Thus in its ardent prime should close ; 
Hadst thou but fallen in nobler strife. 
But died 'midst conquered foes! 

Yet hast thou still (though victory's flame 
In that last moment cheered thee not) 
Left Glory's isle another name. 
That ne'er may be forgot: 

And many a tale of triumph won 
Shall breathe that name in Memory's ear, 
And long may England mourn a son 
Without reproach or fear. 



TO THE MEMORY OF SIR H— Y 
E— LL— S. 

WHO FELL IN THE BATTLE OP WATERLOO. 



" Happy are they who die in their youth, when their I'e- 
nown is around them." Ossian. 



Weep'st thou for him, whose doom was sealed 
On England's proudest battle-field 1 
For him, the lion-heart, who died, 
In victory's full, resistless tide? 

Oh ! mourn him not. 
By deeds like his that field was won. 
And Fate could yield to Valour's son. 

No brighter lot. 

He heard his band's exulting cry. 
He saw the vanquished eagles fly ; 
And envied be his death of fame, 
It shed a sunbeam o'er his name, 

That nought shall dim — 
No cloud obscured his glory's day, 
It saw no twilight of decay — 

Weep not for him ! 
• 

And breathe no dirge's plaintive moan, 
A hero claims far loftier tone ! 
Oh ! proudly should the war-song swell, 
Recording how the mighty fell 

In that dread hour. 
When England, 'midst the battle-storm, 
Th' avenging angel — reared her form 

In tenfold power. 

Yet. gallant heart ! to swell thy praise. 
Vain were the minstrel's noblest lays; 
Since he, the soldier's guiding-star, 
The victor-chief, the lord of war. 

Has owned thy fame : 
And oh! Hke his approving word. 
What trophied marble could record 

A warrior's fame? 



292 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



GUERILLA SONG. 
Founded on the story related of the Spanish Patriot, Mina. 

Oh! forget not the hour, when through forest and 

vale, 
We returned with our chief to his dear native hills ; 
Through the woody Sierra there sighed not a gale, 
And the moonbeam was bright on, his battlement- 
walls ; 
And nature lay sleeping, in calmness and hght, 
Round the home of the valiant, that rose on our 
siffht. 



We entered that home — all was loneliness round. 
The stillness, the darkness, the peace of the grave ; 
JN^ot a voice, not a step, bade its echoes resound. 
Ah ! such was the welcome that waited the brave ! 
For the spoilers had passed, like the poison-wind's 

breath, 
And the loved of his bosom lay silent in death. 

Oh! forget not that hour — let its image be near. 
In the light of our mirth, in the dreams of our rest. 
Let its tale awake feelings too deep for a tear, 
And rouse into vengeance each arm and each 

breast, 
Till cloudless the dayspring of liberty shine 
O'er the plains of the olive, and hills of the vine. 



THE AGED INDIAN. 

Warriors! my noon of life is past, 
The brightness of my spirit flown ; 
I crouch before the wintry blast. 
Amidst my tribe I dwell alone; 
The heroes of my youth are fled. 
They rest among the warlike dead. 

Ye slumberers of tjie narrow cave ! 

My kindred-chiefs in days of yore, 

Ye fill an unremembered grave, 

Your fame, your deeds, are known no more. 

The records of your wars are gone. 

Your names forgot by all but one. 

Soon shall that one depart from earth. 
To join the brethren of his prime : 
Then will the memory of your birth 
Sleep with the hidden things of time ! 
With him, ye sons of former days ! 
Fades the last glimmering of your praise. 

His eyes that hailed your spirit's flame. 
Still kindling in the combat's shock, 
Have seen, since darkness veiled your fame, 
Sons of the desert and the rock ! 



Another, and another race. 
Rise to the battle, and the chace 

Descendants of the mighty dead ! 
Fearless of heart, and firm of hand ! 
Oh ! let me join their spirits fled, 
Oh ! send me to their shadowy land. 
Age hath not tamed Ontara's heart. 
He shrinks not from the friendly dart. 

These feet no more can chase the deer, 
The glory of this arm is flown — 
Why should the feeble linger here. 
When all the pride of life is gone 1 
Warriors ! why still the stroke deny, 
Think ye Ontara fears to die? 

He feared not in his flower of days. 
When strong to stem the torrent's force, • 
When through the desert's pathless maze, 
His way was as an eagle's course ! 
When war was sunshine to his sight, 
And the wild hurricane, delight ! 

Shall then the warrior tremble now? 
Now when his envied strength is o'er? 
Hung on the pine his idle bow. 
His pirogue useless on the shore 1 
When death hath dimmed his failing eye, 
Shall he, the joyless, fear to diel 

Sons of the brave ! delay no more. 
The spirits of my kindred call ; 
'T is but one pang, and all is o'er! 
Oh ! bid the aged cedar fall ! 
To join the brethren of his prime, 
The mighty of departed time. 



EVENING AMONGST THE ALPS. 

Soft skies of Italy! how richly drest. 
Smile these wild scenes in your purpurea! glow ; 
What glorious hues, reflected from the west, 
Float o'er the dwellings of eternal snow! 

Yon torrent, foaming down the granite steep. 
Sparkles all brilliance in the setting beam; 
Dark glens beneath in shadowy beauty sleep, 
Where pipes the goatherd by his mountain-stream. 

Now from yon peak departs the vivid ray, 
That still at eve its lofty temple knows ; 
From rock and torrent fade the tints away. 
And all is wrapt in twilight's deep repose : 
While through the pine-wood gleams the vesper- 
star. 
And roves the Alpine gale o'er solitudes afar. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



293 



DIRGE OP THE HIGHLAND CHIEF IN 
" WAVERLEY." 

Son of the mighty and the free ! 
High-minded leader of the brave! 
Was it for lofty chief Hke thee, 

To fill a nameless gravel 
Oh ! if, amidst the valiant slain. 
The warrior's bier hath been thy lot, 
E'en though on red Culloden's plain. 

We then had mourned thee not. 

But darkly closed thy dawn of fame, 
That dawn whose sunbeam rose so fair; 
Vengeance alone may breathe thy name. 

The watchword of Despair! 
Yet oh! if gallant spirit's power 
Had e'er enobled death like thine. 
Then glory marked thy parting hour, 

Last of a mighty line ! 

O'er thy own towers the sunshine falls, 
But can not chase their silent gloom ; 
Those beams, that gild thy native walls, 

Are sleeping on thy tomb ! 
Spring on thy mountains laughs the while, 
Thy green woods wave in vernal air. 
But the loved scenes may vainly smile — 

Not e'en thy dust is there. 

On thy blue hills no bugle-sound 
Is mingling with the torrent's roar. 
Unmarked the wild deer sport around — 

Thou lead'st the chace no more ! 
Thy gates are closed, thy halls are still. 
Those halls where pealed the choral strain, 
They hear the wind's deep murmuring thrill — 

And all is hushed again. 

No banner from the lonely tower 
Shall wave its blazoned folds on high ; 
There the tall grass and summer flower, 

Unmarked shall spring and die. 
No more thy bard, for other ear, 
Shall wake the harp once loved by thine — 
Hushed be the strain tliou canst not hear. 

Last of a mighty line. 



THE CRUSADER'S WAR SONG. 

Chieftains, lead on ! our hearts beat high. 

Lead on to Salem's towers ! 
Who would not deem it bliss to die. 

Slain in a cause like curs'? 
The brave who sleep in soil of thine. 
Lie not entombed, but shrined, O Palestine; 



Souls of the slain in holy war! 

Look from your sainted rest! 
Tell us ye rose in Glory's car, 

To mingle with the blest ; 
Tell us how short the death-pang's power, 
How bright the joys of your immortal bower. 

Strike the loud harp, ye minstrel train ! 

Pour forth your loftiest lays; 
Each heart shall echo to the strain 

Breathed in the warrior's praise. 
Bid every string triumphant swell 
Th' inspiring sounds that heroes love so well. 

Salem ! amidst the fiercest hour 

The wildest rage of fight. 
Thy name shall lend our falchions power, 

And nerve our hearts with might. 
Envied be those for thee that fall. 
Who find their graves beneath thy sacred wall. 

For them no need that sculptured tomb 

Should chronicle their fame, 
Or pyramid record their doom, 

Or deathless verse their name ; 
It is enough that dust of thine 
Should shroud their forms, O blessed Palestine ! 

Chieftains, lead on ! our hearts beat high 

For combat's glorious hour ; 
Soon shall the red-cross banner fly 

On Salem's loftiest tower! 
We burn to mingle in the strife. 
Where but to die ensures eternal life. 



THE DEATH OF CLANRONALD. 



It w.is in the battle of SherifTmoor that young Clanronald 
fel!, leading on the Iliglilandera of the right wing. His death 
dispirited the assailants, who began to waver. But Glengary, 
chief of a rival branch of the Clan Colla, .'started from the 
ranks, and waving his bonnet round his head, cried out, " To- 
day for revenge, and to-morrow for mourning !" The High- 
landers received a new impulse from his words, and, charging 
with redoubled fury, bore down all before them. — See the 
Quarterly Review, article of "Culloden Papers." 



Oh ! ne'er be Clanronald the valiant forgot ! 
Still fearless and first in the combat he fell ; 
But we paused not one tear-drop to shed o'er the 

spot. 
We spared not one moment to murmur " Farewell." 
We heard but the battle-word given by the chief, 
" To-day for revenge, and to-morrow for grief!" 



294 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



And wildly Clanronald ! we echoed the vow, 
With the tear on our cheek, and the sword in our 

hand ; 
Young son of the brave ! we may weep for thee 

now, 
For well has thy death been avenged by tliy band, 
When they joined in wild chorus the cry of the 

chief, 
" To-day for revenge, and to-morrow for grief!" 

Thy dirge in that hour was the bugle's wild call, 
The clash of the claymore, the shout of the brave ; 
But now thy own bard may lament for thy fall, 
And the soft voice of melody sigh o'er thy grave. 
While Albyn remembers the words of the chief, 
" To-day for revenge, and to-morrow for grief 1" 

Thou art fallen, O fearless one ! flower of thy race! 
Descendant of heroes ! thy glory is set ! 
But thy kindred, the sons of the battle and chase. 
Have proved that thy spirit is bright in them yet 
Nor vainly have echoed the words of the chief, 
" To-day for revenge, and to-morrow for grief!" 



TO THE EYE. 

Throne of expression ! whence the spirit's ray 
Pours forth so o& the light of mental day. 
Where fancy's fire, affection's melting beam. 
Thought, genius, passion, reign in turn supreme, 
And many a feeling, words can ne'er impart. 
Finds its own language to pervade the heart ; 
Thy power, bright orb, what bosom hath not felt. 
To thrill, to rouse, to fascinate, to melt? 
And by some spell of undefined control. 
With magnet-influence touch the secret soul ! 

Light of the features ! in the morn of youth 

Thy glance is nature, and thy language, truth : 

And ere the world, with all-corrupting sway, 

Hath taught e'en thee to flatter and betray, 

Th' ingenuous heart forbids thee to reveal. 

Or speak one thought that interest would conceal; 

While yet thou seem'st the cloudless mirror, given 

But to reflect the purity of heaven ; 

Oh ! then how lovely, there unveiled to trace 

Th' unsullied brightness of each mental grace ! 

When Genius lends thee all his living light, 
Where the full beams of intellect unite. 
When Love illumes thee with his varying ray. 
Where trembling Hope and tearful Rapture play; 
Or Pity's melting cloud thy beam subdues, 
Tempering its lustre with a vale of dews ; 
Still does thy power, whose all-commanding spell 
Can pierce the mazes of the soul so well, 
Bid some new feeling to existence start. 
From its deep slumbers in the inmost heart. 



And oh ! when thought, in ecstacy sublime, 
That soars triumphant o'er the bounds of time, 
Fires thy keen glance with inspiration's blaze, 
The light of heaven, the hope of nobler days, 
(As glorious dreams, for utterance far too high, 
Flash through the mist of dim mortality;) 
Who does not own, that through thy hghtning 

beams 
A flame unquenchable, unearthly, streams ? 
That pure, though captive eflHuence of the sky, 
The vestal-ray, the spark that can not die; 



THE HERO'S DEATH. 

Life's parting beams were in his eye, 
Life's closing accents on his tongue, 
When round him, pealing to the sky, 

The shout of victory rung ! 
Then, ere his gallant spirit fled, 
A smile so bright illumed his face — 
Oh ! never, of the light it shed. 

Shall memory lose a trace ! 

His was a death, whose rapture high 
Transcended all that life could yield ; 
His warmest prayer was so to die, 

On the red battle-field ! 
And they may feel, who love him most, 
A pride so holy and so pure — 
Fate hath no power o'er those who boast 

A treasure thus secure ! 



STANZAS 

ON THE LATE NATIONAL CALAMITY, THE DEATH OP 
THE PRINCESS CHARLOTTE. 



"H61as ! nous composions son histoire de tout ce qu' on 

peut imaginer de plus glorieux Le pass6 et le present 

nous garamissoient Tavenir ^Telle 6toit I'agrfiable his- 
toire que nous faisions ; et pour achever ces nobles projets, il 
n'y avoit que la dur6e de sa vie ; dont nous ne croyons pas 
devoir etre en peine, car. qui eiit pu seulement penser, que 
les ann6es eussent du manquer a un jeunesse qui serabloit si 
vi ve V — Bossuet. 



I. 

Marked ye the mingling of the city's throng, 
Each mien, each glance, with expectation brighf? 
Prepare the pageant and the choral song. 
The pealing chimes, the blaze of festal light ! 
And hark! what rumor's gathering sound is nigh? 
It is the voice of joy, that murmur deep 1 
Away, be hushed ! ye sounds of revelry ! 
Back to your homes, ye multitudes, to weep '. 
Weep ! for the storm hath o'er us darkly past. 
And England's royal flower is broken by the blast ! 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



295 



II. 

Was it a dream 1 so sudden and so dread 
That awful fiat o'er our senses came ! 
So loved, so blest, is that young spirit fled, 
Whose early grandeur promised years of fame 1 
Oh ! when hath life possessed, or death destroyed 
More lovely hopes, more cloudlessly that smiled 1 
When hath the spoiler left so dark a void ! 
For all is lost — the mother and her child ! 
Our morning-star hath vanished, and the tomb 
Throws its deep- lengthened shade o'er distantyears 



to come. 



III. 



Angel of Death ! did no presaging sign 
Announce thy coming, and thy way prepare 1 
No warning voice, no harbinger was thine. 
Danger and fear seemed past — but thou wert there ! 
Prophetic sounds along the earthquake's [lath 
Foretell the hour of Nature's awful throes ; 
And the volcano, ere it burst in wrath, 
Sends forth some herald from its dread repose : 
But thou, dark Spirit ! swift and unforeseen, 
Cam'st like the lightning's flash, when heaven is 
all serene. 

IV. 
And she is gone — the royal and the young. 
In soul commanding and in heart benign ; 
Who from a race of Kings and Heroes sprung, 
Glowed with a spirit lofty as her line. 
Now may the voice she loved on earth so well, 
Breathe forth her name, unheeded and in vain ; 
Nor can those eyes on which her own would dwell, 
Wake from that breast one sympathy again : 
The ardent heart, the towering mind are fled. 
Yet shall undying love still linger with the dead. 

V. 

Oh ! many a bright existence we have seen 
Q,uenched in the glow and fulness of its prime ; 
And many a cherished flower, ere now, hath been 
Cropt, ere its leaves were breathed upon by time. 
We have lost Heroes in their noon, of pride, 
Whose fieMs of triumph gave them but a bier ; 
And we have wept when soaring Genius died, 
Checked in the glory of his mid career 1 
But here our hopes were centred — all is o'er. 
All thought in this absorbed — she was — and is no 



VI. 

We watched her childhood from its earliest hour, 
From every word and look blest omens caught ; 
While that young mind developed all its power, 
And rose to energies of loftiest thought. 
On her was fixed the Patriot's ardent eye, 



One hope still bloomed — one vista still was fair ; 
And when the tempest swept the troubled sky. 
She was our dayspring — all was cloudless there ; 
And oh ! how lovely broke on England's gaze. 
E'en through the mist and storm, the light of dis- 
tant days. 

VII. 

Now hath one moment darkened future years. 
And changed the track of ages yet to be ! — 
Yet, mortal ! 'midst the bitterness of tears, 
Kneel, and adore th' inscrutable decree ! 
Oh ! while the clear perspective smiled in light. 
Wisdom should iAenhave tempered hope's excess, 
And, lost One ! when we saw thy lot so bright, 
We might have trembled at its loveliness: 
Joy is no earthly flower — nor framed to bear, 
In its exotic bloom, life's cold, ungenial air. 

VIII. 

All smiled around thee — Youth, and Love, and 

Praise, 
Hearts all devotion and all truth were thine ! 
On thee was riveted a nation's gaze. 
As on some radiant and unsullied shrine. 
Heiress of empires ! thou art passed away, 
Like some fair vision, that arose to throw, 
O'er one brief hour of life, a fleeting ray, 
Then leave the rest to solitude and wo ! 
Oh ! who shall dare to woo such dreams again ! 
Who hath not wept to know, that tears for thee 

were vainT 

IX. 

Yet there is one who loved thee — and whose soul 
With mild affections nature formed to melt ; 
His mind hath bowed beneath the stern control 
Of many a grief — but this shall be unfelt! 
Years have gone by — and given his honoured head 
A diadem of snow — his eye is dim — 
Around him Heaven a solemn cloud hath spread, 
The past, the future, are a dream to him ! 
Yet in the darkness of his fate, alone 
He dwells on earth, while thou, in life's full pride, 
art gone ! 

X. 

The Chastener's hand is on us — we may weep, 
But not repine — for many a storm hath past. 
And, pillowed on her own majestic deep. 
Hath England slept, unshaken by the blast ! 
And war hath raged o'er many a distant plain, 
Trampling the vine and olive in his path ; 
While she, that regal daughter of the main. 
Smiled, in serene defiance of his wrath ! 
As some proud summit, mingling with the sky, 
Hears calmly far below the thurders roll and die. 



296 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



XI. 

Her voice hath been tli' awakener — and her name, 

The gathering word of nations— in her might 

And all the awful beauty of her fame, 

Apart she dwelt, in solitary light. 

High on her cliffs, alone and firm she stood, 

Fixing the torch upon her beacon-tower; 

That torch, whose flame, far streaming o'er the 

flood. 
Hath guided Europe through her darkest hour! — 
Away, vain dreams of glory! — in the dust 
Be humbled, ocean-queen ! and own thy sentence 

just! 

XII. 

Hark ! 't was the death-bell's note! which, full and 

deep, 
Unmixed with aught of less majestic tone, 
While all the murmurs of existence sleep, 
Swells on the stillness of the air alone ! 
Silent the throngs that fill the darkened street, 
Silent the slumbering Thames, the lonely mart ; 
And all is still, where countless thousands meet, 
Save the full throbbing of the awe-struck heart ! 
All deeply, strangely, fearfully serene, 
As in each ravaged home th' avenging one had 

been. 

XIII. 

The sun goes down in beauty — his farewell, 
Unlike the world he leaves, is calmly bright; 
And his last mellowed rays around us dwell. 
Lingering, as if on scenes of young delight. 
They smile and fade — but, when the day is o'er. 
What slow procession moves, with measured 

tread 1— 
Lo! those who weep, with her who weeps no 

more, 
A solemn train — the mourners and the dead! 
While, throned on high, the moon's untroubled ray 
Looks down, as earthly hopes are passing thus 

away. 

XIV. 

But other light is in that holy pile. 
Where, in the house of silence, kings repose; 
There, through the dim arcade, and pillared aisle, 
The funeral-torch its deep-red radiance throws. 
There pall, and canopy and sacred strain. 
And all around the stamp of wo may bear; 
But Grief, to whose full heart those forms are vain, 
Grief unexpressed, unsoothed by them — is there. 
No darker hour hath Fate for him who mourns, 
Than when the all he loved, as dust to dust, re- 
turns. 

XV. 

We mourn — but not thy fate, departed One ! 
We pity — but the living, not the dead ; 



A cloud hangs o'er us — "the bright day is done "♦ 
And with a father's hopes, a nation's fled. 
And he, the chosen of thy youthful breast. 
Whose soul with thine had mingled every thought; 
He, with thine early, fond aflections bleat. 
Lord of a mind with all things lovely fraught ; 
What but a desert to his eye, that earth. 
Which but retains of thee the memory of thyj 
worth? 

XVI. 

Oh ! there are griefs for nature too intense, 
Whose first rude shock but stupefies the soul; 
Nor hath the fragile and o'erlaboured sense 
Strength e'en to feci at once their dread control. , 
But when 't is past, that still and speechless hour Jt 
Of the sealed bosom, and the tearless eye. 
Then the roused mind awakes, with tenfold power, 
To grasp the fulness of its agony ! 
Its death-like torpor vanished — and its doom. 
To cast its own dark hues o'er life and nature's 
bloom. 

XVII 

And such his lot, whom thou hast loved and left, 
Spirit ! thus early to thy home recalled ! 
So sinks the heart, of hope and thee berefl;, 
A warrior's heart ! by danger ne'er appalled. 
Years may pass on — and, as they roll along. 
Mellow those pangs which now his bosom rend; 
And he once more, with life's unheeding throng, 
May, though alone in soul, in seeming blend ; 
Yet still, the guardian-angel of his mind, 
Shall thy loved image dwell, in Memory's temple 
shrined. 

XVIII. 

Yet must the days be long ere time shall steal 
Aught from his grief, whose spirit dwells with 

thee; 
Once deeply bruised, the heart at length may heal. 
But all it was — oh ! never more shall be — 
The flower, the leaf, o'erwhelmed by winter-snow. 
Shall spring again, when beams and showers re- 
turn; 
The faded cheek again with health may glow. 
And the dim eye with life's warm radiance burn; 
But the pure freshness of the mind's young bloom, 
Once lost, revives alone in worlds beyond the tomb. 

XIX. 

But thou — thine hour of agony is o'er. 
And thy brief race in brilliance hath been run. 
While Faith, that bids fond nature grieve no more, 
Tells that thy crown — though not on earth — is 
won. 



' " The bright day is done, 
And we are for the dark." 



Sluikspeare. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



297 



Thou, of the world so early left, hast known 
Nought but the bloom and sunshine— and for thee, 
Child of propitious stars! for thee alone. 
The course of love ran smooth,* and brightly 

free — 
Not long such bliss to mortal could be given, 
It is enough for earth, to catch one glimpse of 

heaven, 

XX. 
What though, ere yet the noonday of thy fame 
Rose in its glory on thine England's eye, 
The grave's deep shadows o'er thy spirit camel 
Ours is that loss— and thou wert blest to dio! 
Thou might'st have lived to dark and evil years, 
To mourn thy people changed, thy skies o'ercast; 
But thy spriiig-niorn was all undimmed by tears. 
And thou wert loved and cherished to the last ! 
And thy young name, ne'er breathed in ruder tone, 
Thus dying, thou hast left to love and grief alone. 

XXI. 
Daughter of Kings ! from that high sphere look 

down. 
Where still in hope, affection's thoughts may rise; 
Where dimly shines to thee that mortal crown, 
Which earth displayed to claim thee from the skies. 
Look down ! and if thy spirit yet retain 
Memory of aught that once was fondly dear. 
Soothe, though unseen, the hearts that mourn in 

vain, 
And, in their hours of loneliness — be near ! 
Blest was thy lot e'en here — and one faint sigh, 
Oh ! toll those hearts, hath made that bliss eternity ! 
Nov. 2.3, 1817. 



BELSHAZZAR'S FEAST.+ 
'T WAS night \n Babylon : yet many a beam, 
Of lamps far-glittering from her domes on high, 
Shone, brightly mingling in Euphrates' stream. 
With the clear stars of that Chaldean sky. 
Whose azure knows no cloud : — each whispered 

sigh 
Of the soft night-breeze through her terrace- 
bowers 
Bore deepening tones of joy and melody. 
O'er an illumined wilderness of flowers ; 
And the glad city's voice went up from all her 
towers. 

But prouder mirth was in the kingly hall. 
Where, 'midst adoring slaves, a gorgeous band ! 
High at the stately midnight festival, 
Belshazzar sat enthroned. — There Luxury's 
hand 



• " The course of inie love never did run smooth." 

Sha/cspcarc. 
1 Originally published in Mrs. Joanna Bailliote cuUeciion of 
Poems from living Authors. 



Had showered around all treasures that expand 
Beneath the burning Ea,st;— all gems that pour 
The sunbeams back;— all sweets of manya land, 
Whose gales waft incense from their spicy shore ; 
— But mortal pride looked on, and still demanded 
more. 

Witli richer zest the banquet may be fraught, 
A loftier theme may swell th' exulting strain! 
The Lord of nations spoke, — and forth were 

brought 
The spoils of Salem's devastated fane : 
Thrice holy vessels! — i)ure from earthly stain, 
And set apart, and sanctified to Him, 
Who deigned. within the oracle to reign. 
Revealed, yet shadowed; making noon-day dim, 
To that most glorious cloud between the Cheru- 
bim. 

They came, and louder pealed the voice of song, 
And pride flashed brighter from the kindhng 

eye, 

And He who sleeps not heard th' elated throng, 
In mirth that plays with thunderbolts, defy 
The Rock of Zion!— Fill the nectar high, 
High in the cu[)s of consecrated gold! 
And crown the bowl with garlands, ere they die, 
And bid the censers of the Temple hold 
Oflcrings to Babel's gods, the mighty ones of old ! 

Peace! — is it but a ])hantomof the brain. 
Thus shadowed forth the senses to appal. 
Yon fearful vision?— Who shall gaze again 
To search its cause 1 — Along the illumined wall, 
Startling, yet riveting the eyes of all, 
Darkly it moves,— a hand, a human hand, 
O'er the bright lamps of that resplendent hall 
In silence tracing, as a mystic wand. 
Words all unknown, the tongue of some far dis- 
tant land. 

There are pale cheeks around the regal board. 
And quivering lips and whispers deep and low, 
And fitful starts !— the wine in triumph poured, 
Untastcd foams, the song hath ceased to flow. 
The waving cen.ser drops to earth — and lo ! 
The King of Men, the Ruler, girt with might, 
Trembles before a shadow!— Say not so! 
— The child of dust, with guilt's foreboding 

sight, 
Shrinks from the Dread Unknown, th' avenging 

Infinite! 

But haste ye ! — bring Chaldea'a gifted seers. 
The men of prescience!— haply to Iheireycs, 
Which track the future through the rolling 

spheres, 
Yon mystic sign may speak in prophecies. 
They come— the readers of the midnight skies, 
They that give voice to visioni-s — but in vain ! 
Still wrapt in clouds the awful secret lies, 



298 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



It hath no language 'midst the starry train, 
Earth has no gifted tongue Heaven's mysteries to 
explain. 

Then stood forth one, a child of other sires, 
And other inspiration ! — One of those 
Who on the willows hung their captive lyres, 
And sat, and wept, where Babel's river flows. 
His eye was bright, and yet the deep repose 
Of his pale features half o'era wed the mind, 
And imaged forth a soul, whose joys and woes 
Were of a loftier stamp than aught assigned 
To earth ; a being sealed and severed from man- 
kind. 

Yes! — what was earth to him, whose spirit 

passed 
Time's utmost bounds'? — on whose unshrinking 

sight 
Ten thousand shapes of burning glory cast 
Their full resplendence 1 — Majesty and might, 
Were in his dreams ; — for him the veil of light 
Shrouding heaven's inmost sanctuary and throne. 
The curtain of th' unutterably bright 
Was raised ! — to him, in fearful splendour shown. 
Ancient of days ! e'en thou mad'st thy dread pre- 
sence known. 

He spoke : — the shadows of the things to come 
Passed o'er his soul : — " O King, elate in pride ! 
God hath sent forth the writing of thy doom, 
The one, the living God, by thee defied ! 
He in whose balance earthly lords are tried. 
Hath weighed, and found thee wanting. 'T is 

decreed 
The conqueror's hands thy kingdom shall divide. 
The stranger to thy throne of power succeed! 
The days are full, they come ; — the Persian and 

the Mede !" 

There fell a moment's thrilling silence round, 
A breathless pause ! the hush of hearts that beat 
And limbs that quiver: — is there not a sound, 
A gathering cry, a tread of hurrying feet? 
: — 'T was but some echo, in the crowded street. 
Of far-heard revelry ; the shout, the song. 
The measured dance to music wildly sweet, 
That speeds the stars their joyous course 
along;— 
Away ! not let a dream disturb the festal throng ! 

Peace yet again ! — Hark ! steps in tumult flying, 
Steeds rushing on as o'er a battle-field! 
The shout of hosts exulting or defying, 
The press of multitudes that strive or yield ! 
And the loud, startling clash of spear and shield, 
Sudden as earthquake's burst ! — and, blent with 

these, 
The last wild shriek of those whose doom is 

sealed 
In their full mirth ! — all deepening on the breeze, 
As the long stormy roar of far-advancing seas! 



And nearer yet the trumpet's blast is swelUng, 
Loud, shrill, and savage, drowning everj^ cry! 
And lo I the spoiler in the regal dwelling, 
Death bursting on the halls of revelry ! 
Ere on their brows one fragile rose-leaf die, 
The sword hath raged through joy's devoted 

train, 
Ere one bright star be faded from the sky. 
Red flames, like banners, wave from dome and 
fane, 
Empire is lost and won, Belshazzar with the slain. 

Fallen is the golden city ! in the dust 
Spoiled of her crown, dismantled of her state. 
She that hath made the Strength of Towers 

her trust. 
Weeps by her dead, supremely desolate! 
.She that beheld the nations at her gate. 
Thronging in homage, shall be called no more ■ 
Lady of kingdoms! — Who shall mourn her 

Mel 
Her guilt is full, her march of triumph o'er; — 
— What widowed land shall now her widowhood 
deplore 7 

Sit thou in silence ! Thou that wert enthroned 
On many waters ! thou whose augurs read, 
The language of the planets, and disowned 
The mighty name it blazons ! — Veil thy head, 
Daughter of Babylon! the sword is red 
From thy destroyers' harvest, and the yoke 
Is on thee, O most proud ! — for thou hast said, 
"I am, and none beside!" — Th' Eternal spoke, 
Thy glory was a spoil, thine idol-gods were broke. 

But go thou forth, O Israel! wake! rejoice ! 
Be clothed with strength, as in thine ancient 

day! ' 

Renew the sound of harps, th'texulting voice, 
The mirth of timbrels! — loose the chain, and 

say 
God hath redeemed his people ! — from decay 
The silent and the trampled shall arise; 
— Awake ; put on thy beautiful array, 
Oh long-forsaken Zion ! to the skies 
Send up on every wind thy choral melodies ! 

And Uft thy head ! — Behold thy sons returning, 
Redeemed from exile, ransomed from the chain ! 
Light hath revisited the house of mourning; 
She that on Judah's mountains wept in vain 
Because her children were not — dwells again 
Girt with the lovely ! — through thy streets once 

more. 
City of God ! shall pass the bridal train. 
And the bright lamps their festive radiance 

pour. 
And the yiumphal hymns the joy of youth re- 
store ! 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



299 



THE CHIEFTAIN'S SON. 

Yes, it is ours! — the field is won, 

A dark and evil field ! 
Lift from the ground my noble son, 
And bear him homewards on his bloody shield ! 

Let me not hear your trumpets ring, 

Swell not the battle-horn ! 
Thoughts far too sad those notes will bring, 
When to the grave my glorious flower is borne! 

Speak not of victory ! — in the name 

There is too much of wo ! 
Hushed be the empty voice of Fame — 
Call me back his whose graceful head is low. 

Speak not of victory ! — from my halls 

The sunny hour is gone ! 
The ancient banner on my walls 
Must sink ere long — I had but him— but one ! 

Within the dwelling of my sires 

The hearths will soon be cold. 
With me must die the beacon-fires 
That streamed at midnight from the mountain- 
hold. 

And let them fade, since this must be, 

My lovely and my brave ! 
Was thy bright blood poured forth for me. 
And is there but for stately youth a grave 1 

Speak to me once again, my boy! 

Wilt thou not hear my call 1 
Thou wert so full of Ufe and joy, 
I had not dreampt of this — that thou couldst fall ! 

Thy mother watches from the steep 

For thy returning plume ; 

How shall I tell her that thy sleep 

Is of the silent house, th' untimely tombl 

Thou didst not seem as one to die. 
With all thy young renown ! 
— Ye saw his falchion's flash on high. 
In the mid-fight, when spears and crests went 
down ! 

Slow be your march ! — the field is won ! 

A dark and evil field ! 
Lift from the ground my noble son. 
And bear him homewards on his bloody shield. 



They sleep ! — th' Olympic wreaths are dead, 
Th' Athenian lyres are hushed and gone; 
The Dorian voice of song is fled — 
— Slumber, ye mighty! slumber deeply on! 

They sleep, and seems not all around 
As hallowed unto glory's tomb 7 
Silence is on the battle ground, 
The heavens are loaded with a breathless gloom. 

And stars are watching on their height. 
But dimly seen through mist and cloud, 
And still and solemn is the light 
Which folds the plain, as with a glimmering shroud. 

And thou, pale night-queen! here thy beams 
Are not as those the shepherd loves. 
Nor look they down on shining streams, 
By Naiads haunted, in their laurel groves: 

Thou seest no pastoral hamlet sleep, 
In shadowy quiet, 'midst its vines ; 
No temple gleaming from the steep, 
'Midst the gray olives, or the mountain pines : 

But o'er a dim and boundless waste. 
Thy rays, e'en like a tomb-lamp's, brood, 
Where man's departed steps are traced 
But by his dust, amidst the soUtude. 

And be it thus ! — What slave shall tread 
O'er freedom's ancient battle-plains'? 
Let deserts wrap the glorious dead. 
When their bright land sits weeping o'er her 
chains : 

Here, where the Persian clarion rung. 
And where the Spartan sword flashed high, 
And where the Psean strains were sung. 
From year to year swelled on by liberty ! 

Here should no voice, no sound, be heard, 
Until the bonds of Greece be riven. 
Save of the leader's charging word. 
Or the shrill trumpet, peahng up through heaven ! 

Rest in your silent homes, ye brave ! 
No vines festoon your lonely tree !* 
No harvest o'er your war-fields wave. 
Till rushing winds proclaim — the land is free ! 



THE TOMBS OF PLAT^A. 

FROM A PAINTING BY WILLIAMS. 

And there they sleep ! — the men who stood 

In arms before th' exulting sun, 

And bathed their spears in Persian blood. 



THE VIEW FROM CASTRl. 

FROM A PAINTING BY WILLIAMS. 

There have been bright and glorious pageants 

here, 
Where now gray stones and moss-growncolumns 

lie; 



' A single tree appears in Mr. Williams's impressive pio- 
And taught the earth how freedom might be won. ture. 



300 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



There have been words, which earth grew pale 

to hear, 
Breathed from the cavern's misty chambers nigh: 
There have been voices, through the sunny sky, 
And the pine-woods, their choral hymn-notes 

sending, 
And reeds and lyres, their Dorian melody, 
With incense-clouds around the temple blending, 
And throngs, with laurel-boughs, before the altar 

bending. 

There have been treasures of the seas and isles 
Brought to the day-god's now forsaken throne : 
Thunders have pealed along the rock-defiles. 
When the far-echoing battle-horn made known 
That foes were on their way ! — the deep- wind's 

moan 
Hath chilled the invader's heart with secret fear. 
And from the Sibyl-grottoes, wild and lone. 
Storms have gone forth, which, in their fierce 

career, 
From his bold hand have struck the banner and 

the spear. 

The shrine hath sunk ! — but thou unchanged 

art there ! 
Mount of the voice and vision, robed with dreams! 
Unchanged, and rushing through the radiant air, 
With thy dark-waving pines, and flashing 

streams. 
And all thy founts of song ! their bright coarse 

teems 
With inspiration yet ; and each dim haze, 
Or golden cloud which floats around thee, seems 
As with its mantle, veihng from our gaze 
The mysteries of the past, the gods of elder days ! 

Away, vain phantasies ! — doth less of power 
Dwell round thy summit, or thy cliffs invest. 
Though in deep stillness now, the ruin's flower 
Wave o'er the pillars mouldering on thy breast 1 
— Lift through the free blue heavens thine arrowy 

crest ! 
Let the great rocks their solitude regain ! 
No Delphian lyres now break thy noontide rest 
With their full chords : — but silent be the strain ! 
Thou hast a mightier voice to speak th' Eternal's 

reign!* 



THE FESTAL HOUR. 
When are the lessons given 
That shake the startled earth "? — When wakes the 

foe, 
While the friend sleeps! — When falls the traitor's 
blow 7 
When are proud sceptres riven, 



* This, with the preceding, and several of the following 
pieces, have appeared in the Edinburgh Magazine. 



High hopes o'erthrown ! — It is, when lands rejoice, 
When cities blaze, and lift th' exulting voice. 
And wave their banners to the kindling heaven ! 

Fear ye the festal hour I 
When mirth o'erflows, then tremble 1 — 'T was a 

night 
Of gorgeous revel, wreaths, and dance, and light, 

When through the regal bower 
The trumpet pealed, ere yet the song was done, 
And there were shrieks in golden Babylon, 
And trampling armies, ruthless in their power. 

The marble shrines were crowned : 
Young voices, through the blue Athenian sky, 
And Dorian reeds, made summer-melody, 

And censers waved around ; 
And lyres were strung, and bright libations poured, 
When, through the streets, flashed out the aveng- 
ing sword. 
Fearless and free, the sword with myrtles bound !* 

Through Rome a triumph passed. 
Rich in her sun-god's mantling beams went by 
That long array of glorious pageantry. 

With shout and trumpet-blast. 
An empire's gems their starry splendor shed 
O'er the proud march ; a king in chains was led ; 
A stately victor, crowned and robed, came last.t 

And many a Dryad's bower 
Had lent the laurels, which in waving play. 
Stirred the warm air, and gUstened round his way, 

As a quick-flashing shower. 
— O'er his own porch, meantime, the cypress hung, 
Through his fair halls a cry of anguish rung — 
Wo for the dead !— the father's broken flower ! 



^>. 



/ A sound of lyre and song. 
In the still night, went floating o'er the Nile,'*»ifr, 
Whose waves, by many an old mysterious pile, "l 
• Swept with that voice along; ? 

And lamps were shining o'er the red wine's foam, 
Where a chief revelled in a monarch's dome. 
And fresh rose-garlands decked a glittering throng. 

'T was Antony that bade 
The joyous chords ring out I — but strains arose 
Of wilder omen at the banquet's close! 

Sounds by no mortal madet 
Shook Alexandria through her streets that night, 
And passed — and with another sunset's light, ,>' 
The kingly Roman on his bier was laid. 



• The sword of Harmodius. 

) Paulus ^milius, one of whose sons died a few days be- 
fore, and another shortly after, his triumph on the conquest 
of Macedoh, when Perseus, king of that country, was led in 
chains. 

t See the description given by Plutarch, in his life of An- 
tony, of the supernatural sounds heard in the streets of Alex- 
andiia, the night before Antony's death. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



301 



Bright 'midst its vineyards lay 
The fair Campanian city,* with its towers 
And temples gleaming through dark olive-bowers, 

Clear in the golden day ; 
Joy was around it as the glowing sky. 
And crowds had fdled its halls of revelry, 
And all the sunny air was music's way. 

A cloud came o'er the face 
Of Italy's rich heaven ! — its crystal blue 
Was changed, and deepened to a wrathful hue 

Of night, o'ershadowing space. 
As with the wings of death! — in all his power 
Vesuvius woke, and hurled the burning shower, 
And who could tell the buried city's place 1 

Such things have been of yore. 
In the gay regions where the citrons blow. 
And purple summers all their sleepy glow 

On the grape-clusters pour; 
And where the palms to spicy winds are waving. 
Along clear seas of melted sapphire, laving. 
As with a flow of light, their southern shore. 

Turn we to other climes ! 
Far in the Druid-Isle a feast was spread, 
'Midst the rock-altars of the warrior-dead,t 

And ancient battle-rhymes 
Were chanted to the harp ; and yellow mead 
Went flowing round, and tales of martial deed, 
And lofty songs of Britain's elder time. 

But ere the giant-fane 

Cast its broad shadows on the robe of even, 

Hushed were the bards, and, in the face of Heaven, 
O'er that old burial-plain 

Flashed the keen Saxon dagger! — Blood was 
streaming. 

Where late the mead-cup to the sun was gleam- 
ing, 

And Britain's hearths were heaped that night in 
vain. 

For they returned no more ! 
They that went forth at morn, with reckless heart. 
In that fierce banquet's mirth to bear their part ; 

And on the rushy floor. 
And the bright spears and bucklers of the walls, 
The high wood-fires were blazing in their halls ; 
But not for them — they slept — their feast was o'er ! 

Fear ye the festal hour ! 
Ay, tremble when the cup of joy o'erflows ! 
Tame down the swelling heart ! — the bridal rose, 

And the rich myrtle's flower 



' Herculaneum, of which it ia related, that all the inlia- 
bitants were assembled in the theatres, when the shower of 
ashes, which covered the city, descended. 

t Stonehenge, said by some traditions to have been erected 
to the memory of Ambrosius, an early British king ; and by 
others, mentioned as a monumental record of the massacre of 
British chiefs here alluded to. 
29 



Have veiled the sword I — Red wines have sparkled 

fast 
From venomed goblets, and soft breezes passed, 
With fatal perfume, through the revel's bower. 

Twine the young glowing wreath! 
But pour not all your spirit in the song. 
Which through the sky's deep azure floats along, 

Like summer's quickening breath ! 
The ground is hollow in the path of mirth, 
Oh! far too daring seems the joy of earth, 
So darkly pressed and girdled in by death ! 



SONG OF THE BATTLE OF MOR- 
GARTEN. 



" In the year 1315, Switzerland was invaded by Duke Leo- 
pold of Austria, with a formidable army. It is well attested, 
that this prince rcjieatedly declared he 'would trample the 
audacious rustics under his foet ;' and that he had procured a 
large stock of cordage, for the purpose of binding their chiefs, 
and putting them to death. 

" The 15th October, 1315, dawned. The sun darted its first 
rays on the shields and armour of the advancing host; and 
this being the first army ever known to have attempted the 
frontiers of the cantons, the Swiss viewed its long line with 
various emotions. Montfort de Tettnang led the cavalry into 
the narrow pass, and soon filled the whole space between the 
mountain (Mount Sattel) and the lake. The fifty men on the 
eminence (above Morgarten) raised a sudden shout, and rolled 
down heaps of rocks and stones among the crowded ranks. 
The confederates on the mountain, perceiving the impression 
made by this attack, rushed down in close array, and fell upon 
the flank of the disordered column. With massy clubs they 
dashed in pieces the armour of the enemy, and dealt their 
blows and thrusts with long pikes. Tlie narrowness of the 
defile admitted of no evolutions, and a slight frost having in- 
jured the road, the horses were impeded in all their motions; 
many leaped into the lake; all were staitled; and at last the 
whole column gave way, and fell suddenly back on the in- 
fantry ; and these last, as the nature of the country did not 
allow them to open their files, were run over by the fugitives^ 
and many of tliem trampled to death. A general rout ensued, 
and Duke Leopold was, with much difficulty, rescued by a 
peasant, who led him to Winterthur, where the historian of 
the times saw him arrive in the evening, pale, sullen, and dis- 
mayed." — Planta's History of the Helvetic Confederacy. 

The wine-month* shone in its golden prime, 

And the red grapes clustering hung. 
But a deeper sound through the Switzer's clime, 
Than the vintage music, rung. 
A sound, through vaulted cave, 
A sound, through echoing glen 
Like the hollow swell of a rushing wave ; 
— 'T was the tread of steel-girt men. 

And a trumpet, pealing wild and far, 
'Midst the ancient rocks was blovra, 

Till the Alps replied to that voice of war, 
With a thousand of their own. 



* Wine-month, the German name for October. 



302 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



And through the forest glooms 
Flashed helmets to the day, 
And the winds were tossing knightly plumes, 
Like the larch-boughs in their play. 

In Hash's* wilds there was gleaming stee!, 

As the host of the Austrian passed ; 
And the Schreckhorn'st rocks, with a savage peal, 
Made rnirth of his clarion's blast. 
Up 'midst the Righit snows 
The stormy march was heard, 
With the charger's tramp, whence ilre-sparks rose, 
And the leader's gathering word. 

But a band, the noblest band of all, 

Through the rude Morgarten strait. 

With blazoned streamers and lances tall, 

Moved onwards, in princely state. 

They came with heavy chains 

For the race despised so long — 

— But amidst his Alp-domains, 

The herdsman's arna is strong ! 

The sun was reddening the clouds of morn 

When they entered the rock-defile. 
And shrill as a joyous hunter's horn 
Their bugles rung the while. 
,But on the misty height, 
Where the mountain-people stood, 
There was stillness, as of night. 
When storms at distance brood. 

There was stillness, as of deep dead night, 

And a pause — but not of fear. 
While the Switzers gazed on the gathering might 
Of the hostile shield and spear. 
On wound those columns bright 
Between the lake and wood. 
But they looked not to the misty height 
Where the mountain-people stood. 

The pass was filled with their serried power. 

All helmed and mail-arrayed. 
And their steps had sounds like a thunder- shower 
In the rustUng forest-shade. 

There were prince and crested knight, 
Hemmed in by cUff and flood, 
When a shout arose from the misty height 
Where the mountain-people stood. 

And the mighty rocks came bounding down. 

Their startled foes among, 
With a joyous whirl from the summit thrown — 

— Oh I the herdsman's arm is strong ! 



• Hasli, a wild district in the canton of Berne, 
t Schreckhorn, the peak of terror, a mountain in the can- 
ton of Berne. 
X Righi, a mountain in the canton of Schwytz. 



They came, like lauwine* hurled 

From Alp to Alp in play. 
When the echoes shout through the snowy 

world. 
And the pines are borne away. 

The fir-woods crashed on the mountain-side, 

And the Switzers rushed from high. 
With a sudden charge, on the flower and pride 
Of the Austrian chivalry : 
Like hunters of the deer. 
They stormed the narrow dell. 
And first in the shock, with Uri's spear. 
Was the arm of William Tell.t 

There was tumult in the crowded strait, 

And a cry of wild dismay, 
And many a warrior met his fate 
From a peasant's hand that dayt 
And the empire's banner then. 
From its place of waving free, 
Went down before the shepherd-men, 
The men of the Forest-sea.t 

With their pikes and massy clubs they brake 

The cuirass and the shield, 
And the war-horse dashed to the reddening 
lake, 
From the reapers of the field ? 
The field — but not of sheaves — 
Proud crests and pennons lay 
Strewn o'er it thick as the birch-wood leaves' 
In the autumn-tempest's way. 

Oh ! the sun in heaven fierce havoc viewed. 

When the Austrian turned to fly, 
And the brave, in the trampling multitude, 
Had a fearful death to die ! 
And the leader of the war 
At eve unhelmed was seen. 
With a hurrying step on the wilds afar, 
And a pale and troubled mien. 

But the sons of the land which the freeman tills, 

Went back from the battle-toil. 
To their cabin-homes 'midst the deep green hills, 
All burdened with royal spoil. 
There were songs and festal fires 
On the soaring Alps that night. 
When children sprung to greet their sires, 
From the wild Morgarten fight. 



* Lauicinc, the Swiss name for the avalanche. 
t William Tell's name is particularly mentioned amongst 
the confederates at Morgarten. 
t Fm-est-sea, the lake of the four cantons is also so called. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



303 



CHORUS. 

Translated from manzoni's ' conte di 

carmagnola.' 

Hark ! from the right bursts forth a trumpet's 

sound ! 
A louJ slirill trumpet from the left rephes ! 
On every side, hoarse echoes from the ground, 
To the quick tramp of steeds and warriors rise, 
Hollow and deep : — and banners all around. 
Meet hostile banners waving througli the skies. 
Here steel-clad bands in marshalled order shine, 
And there a host confronts their glittering line. 

Lo! half the field already from the sight 
Hath vanished, hid by clo.sing groups of foes ! 
Swords crossing swords, flash lightning o'er the 

fight, 
And the strife deepens, and the life-blood flows ! 
— Oh! who are these 1 — What stranger in his 

migiit 
Comes bursting on the lovely land's repose 1 
What patriot hearts have nobly vowed to save 
Their native soil, and make its dust their grave 1 

One race, alas! these foes, one kindred race, 
Were born and reared the same bright scenes 

among ! 
The stranger calls them brothers — and each face 
That brotherhood reveals ; — one common tongue 
Dwells on their lips ; — the earth on which ye trace 
Their heart's blood, is the soil from whence they 

sprung. 
One mother gave them birth — this chosen land. 
Girdled with Alps and seas, by Nature's guardian 

hand. 

Oh, grief and horror ! — Who the first could dare 
Against a brother's breast the sword to wield 1 
What cause unhallowed and accursed, declare ! 
Hath bathed with carnage this ignoble field? 
— Think'st thou they know 1 — they but inflict and 

share 
Misery and death, the motive unrevealed ! 
Sold to a leader, sold himself to die. 
With him they strive, they fall — and ask not why. 

But are there none who love theml — Have they 

none, 
No wives, no mothers, who might rush between, 
And win with tears the husband and the son. 
Back to their homes from this polluted scene 1 
And they, whose hearts, when life's bright day is 

done, 
Unfold to thoughts more solemn and serene. 
Thoughts of the tomb ; why can not they assuage 
The storms of passion with the voice of age 1 



Ask not ! — the peasant at his cabin-door 
Sits, calmly pointing to the distant cloud 
Which skirts th' horizon, menacing to pour 
Destruction down, o'er fields he hath not ploughed. 
Thus, where no echo of the battle's roar. 
Is heard afar, e'en thus the reckless crowd 
In tranquil safety number o'er the slain, 
Or tell of cities burning on the plain. 

There mayst thou mark the boy, with earnest gaze, 
Fixed on his mother's lips, intent to know, 
By names of insult, those, whom future days 
Shall see him meet in arms, their deadliest foe! 
There proudly many a glittering dame displays 
Bracelet and zone, with radiant gems that glow, 
By husliands, lovers, home in triumph borne, 
From the sad brides of fallen warriors torn. 

Wo to the victors and the vanquished ! Wo! 
The earth is heaped, is loaded with tiie slain, 
Loud and more loud the cries of fury grow, 
A sea of blood is swelling o'er the plain ! 
But from th' embattled front, already, lo! 
A band recedes — it flies — all hope is vain, 
And venal hearts, despairing of the strife, 
Wake to the love, the clinging love of life. 

As the light grain disperses in the air, 
Borne from the winnowing liy the gales around. 
Thus fly the vanquished, in their wild despair. 
Chased — severed — scattered — o'er the ample 

ground. 
But mightier bands, that lay in ambush there. 
Burst on their flight — and hark I the deepening 

sound 
Of fierce pursuit ! — still nearer and more near, 
The rush of war-steeds trampling in the rear ! 

The day is won ; — they fall — disarmed they yield, 
liOw at the conqueror's feet all suppliant lying ! 
'Midst shouts of victory pealing o'er the field. 
Oh! who may hoar the murmurs of the dying? 
— Haste ! let the tale of triumph be revealed ! 
E'en now the courier to his steed is flying. 
He spurs — he speeds — with tidings of the day, 
To rouse up cities in his lightning way. 

Why pour ye thus from 3'our deserted homes, 
Oh, eager multitudes! around him pressing! 
Each hurrying where his breathless courser foams. 
Each tongue, each eye, infatuate hope confessing ! 
Know ye not whence th' ill-omened herald comes, 
And dare ye dream he comes with words of Mess- 
ing ] 
— Brothers, by brothers slain, lie low and cold — 
Be ye content! the glorious tale is told. 

I hear the voice of joy, th' exulting cry! 

They deck the shrine, they swell the choral strains; 

E'en now the homicides assail the sky 

With paians, which indignant Heaven disdains! 



304 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



But, from the soaring Alps, the stranger's eye 
Looks watchful down on our ensanguined plains, 
And with the cruel rapture of a foe, 
Numbers the mighty, stretched in death below. 

Haste! form your lines again, ye brave and true ! 
Haste, haste ! your triumphs and your joys sus- 
pending! 
Th' invader comes ; your banners raise anew, 
Rush to the strife, your country's cause defending ! 
Victors ! why pause ye 1 — Are ye weak and few 1 
Ay, such he deemed you ! and for this descending, 
He waits you on the field ye know too well. 
The same red war- field where your brethren fell. 

Oh ! thou devoted land ! that canst not rear 
In peace thine offspring ; thou, the lost and won. 
The fair and fatal soil, that dost appear 
Too narrow still for each contending son ; 
Receive the stranger, in his fierce career. 
Parting thy spoils ! — thy chastening is begun ! 
And, wresting from thy chiefs the guardian sword. 
Foes whom thou ne'er hadst wronged, sit proudly 
at thy board. 

Are these infatuate too"? Oh ! who hath known 
A people e'er by guilt's vain triumph blest? 
The wronged, the vanquished, suffer not alone. 
Brief is the joy that swells th' oppressor's breast. 
What though not yet his day of pride be flown, 
Though yet Heaven's vengeance spare his tower- 
ing crest, 
Well hath it marked him — and ordained the hour 
When his last sigh shall own its mightier power. 

Are we not creatures of one hand divine 1 
Formed in one mould, to one redemption born"? 
Kindred alike, where'er our skies may shine. 
Where'er our sight first drank the vital mornl 
Brothers ! one bond around our souls should tv/ine, 
And wo to him by whom that bond is torn ! 
Who mounts by trampling broken hearts to earth, 
Who bears down spirits of immortal birth ! 



THE MEETING OF THE BARDS. 

WRITTEN FOR AN EISTEDDVOD, OR MEETING OF 
WELSH BARDS. 

Held in London, May 22d, 1823. 

The Gorseddau, or meetings of the British 
bards, were anciently ordained to be held in the 
open air, on some conspicuous situation, whilst the 
sun was above the horizon ; or, according to the 
expression employed on these occasions, "in the 
face of the sun, and in the eye of fight." The 
places set apart for this purpose were marked out 
by a circle of stones, called the circle of federation. 
The presiding bard stood on a large stone (Maen 



Gorsedd, or the stone of assembly), in the centre. 
The sheathing of a sword upon this stone was the 
ceremony which announced the opening of a Gor- 
sedd, or meeting. The bards always stood in their 
uni-coloured robes, with their heads and feet un- 
covered, within the circle of federation. — See 
Owen's Translation of the Heroic Elegies of 
Llywarc Hen. 



Where met our bards of old? — the glorious 

throng. 
They of the mountain and the battle-song ? 
They met — oh! not in kingly hall or bower, 
But where wild Nature girt herself with power : 
They met — where streams flashed bright from 

rocky caves. 
They met — where woods made moan o'er war- 
riors' graves. 
And where the torrent's rainbow spray was cast, 
And where dark lakes were heaving to the blast, 
And 'midst th' eternal cliffs, whose strength defied 
The crested Roman in his hour of pride ; 
And where the Carnedd,* on its lonely hill, 
Bore silent record of the mighty still ; 
And where the Druid's ancient Cromlecht frown'd, 
And the oaks breathed mysterious murmurs round. 
There thronged th' inspired of yore! — on plain or 

height, 
In the sun's face, beneath the eye of light, 
And, baring unto heaven each noble head, 
Stood in the circle, where none else might tread. 

Well might their lays be lofty ! — soaring thought 
From Nature's presence tenfold grandeur caught : 
Well might bold Freedom's soul pervade the 

strains, 
Which startled eagles from their lone domains, 
And, like a breeze, in chainless triumph, went 
Up through the blue resounding firmament ! 

Whence came the echoes to those numbers high 1 
— 'T was from the battle-fields of days gone by! 
And from the tombs of heroes, laid to rest 
With their good swords, upon the mountain's 

breast ; 
And from the watch-towers on the heights of snow, 
Severed by cloud and storm, from all below ; 
And the turf-mounds,t once girt by ruddy spears, 
And the rock-altars of departed years. 

Thence, deeply mingling with the torrent's roar, 
The winds a thousand wild responses bore : 
And the green land, whose every vale and glen 
Doth shrine the memory of heroic men, 



* Carnedd, a stone-barrow, or cairn. 

t Cromlech, a Druidical monument, or altar. The word 
means a stone of covenant. 

* The ancient British chiefs frequently harangued their 
followers from small artificial mounts of turf. — See Pennant. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



305 



On all her hills awakening to rejoice, 

Sent forth proud answers to her children's voice. 

For us, not ours the festival to hold, 

'Midst the stone-circles, hallowed thus of old; 

Not where great Nature's majesty and might 

First broke, all-glorious, on our infant sight; 

Not near the tombs, where sleep our free and 

brave. 
Not by the mountain-llyn,* tlie ocean wave. 
In these late days we meet! — dark Mona's shore, 
Eryri'st cliffs resound with harps no more ! 
But, as the stream (though time or art may turn 
The current, bursting from its caverned urn. 
To bathe soft vales of pasture and of flowers, 
From Alpine glens, or ancient forest-bowers,) 
Alike, in rushing strength or sunny sleep, 
Holds on its course, to mingle with the deep ; 
Thus, though our paths be changed, still warm 

and free, 
Land of the bard! our spirit flies to thee ! 
To thee our thoughts, cur hopes, our hearts be- 
long, 
Our dreams are haunted by thy voice of song ! 
Nor yield our souls one patriot-feeling less, 
To the green memory of thy loveliness. 
Than theirs, whose harp-notes pealed from every 

height. 
In the sun's face, beneath the eye of light! 



THE HOMES OF ENGLAND. 



Where's the cowai'd that would not dare 
To fight for such a land'! — Marmion. 



The stately Homes of England, 

How beautiful they stand! 
Amidst their tall ancestral trees. 

O'er all the pleasant land. 
The deer across their greensward bound 

Through shade and sunny gleam, 
And the swan glides past them with the sound 

Of some rejoicing stream. 

The merry Homes of England I 

Around their hearths by night, 
What gladsome looks of household love 

Meet, in the ruddy light ! 
There woman's voice flows forth in song, 

Or childhood's tale is told. 
Or lips move tunefully along 

Some glorious page of old. 

The blessed Homes of England ! 

How softly on their bowers 
Is laid the holy quietness 

That breathes from Sabbath-hours! 



Solemn, yet sweet, the church-bell's chime 
Floats through their woods at morn; 

All other sounds, in that still time, 
Of breeze and leaf are born. 

The Cottage Homes of England! 

By thousands on her plains. 
They are smiling o'er the silvery brooks, 

And round the hamlet-fanes. 
Through glowing orchards forth they peep, 

Each from its nook of leaves. 
And fearless there the lowly sleep, 

As the bird beneath their eaves. 

The free, fair Homes of England ! 

Long, long, in hut and hall, 
May hearts of native proof be reared 

To guard each hallowed wall! 
And green for ever be the groves, 

And bright the flowery sod, 
Where first the child's glad spirit loves 

Its country and its God !* 



THE SICILIAN CAPTIVE. 



1 have dreamt thou wert 

A captive in thy hopelessness; afar 

From the sweet home of thy young infancy, 

^Vhose image unto thee is as a dream 

Of fii-e and slaughter; I can see thee wasting, 

Sick for thy native air.— ii. £. L. 



The champions had come from their fields of war, 

Over the crests of the billows far, 

They had brought back the spoils of a hundred 

shores. 
Where the deep had foamed to their flashing oars. 

They sat at their feast round the Norse-king's 

board. 
By the glare of the torch-light the mead was poured, 
The hearth was heaped with the pine-boughs high, 
And it flung a red radiance on shields thrown by. 

The Scalds had chaunted in Runic rhyme, 
Their songs of the sword and the olden time. 
And a solemn thrill, as the harp-chords rung, 
Had breathed from the walls where the bright 
spears hung. 

But the swell was gone from the quivering string, 
They had summoned a softer voice to sing, 
And a captive girl, at the warriors' call, 
Stood forth in the midst of that frowning hall. 

Lonely she stood : — in her mournful eyes 
Lay the clear midnight of southern skies, 



• Llyn, a lake or pool. 



t Eryri, Snowdon. 



' Originally published in Blackwood's Magazine, 



300 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



And the drooping fringe of their lashes low, 
Half veiled a depth of unfathomed wo. 

Stately she stood — though her fragile frame 
Seemed struck with the blight of some inward 

flame, 
And her proud pale brow had a shade of scorn, 
Under the waves of her dark hair worn. 

And a deep flush passed, like a crimson haze, 
O'er her marble cheek by the pine-fire's blaze; 
No soft hue caught from the south-wind's breath, 
But a token of fever, at strife with death. 

She had been torn from her home away, 
With her long locks crowned for her bridal day, 
And brought to die of the burning dreams 
That haunt the exile by foreign streams. 

They bade her sing of her distant land — 
She neld its lyre with a trembling hand, 
Till the spirit its blue skies had given her, woke. 
And the stream of her voice into music broke. 

Faint was the strain, in its first wild flow. 
Troubled its murmur, and sad, and low ; 
But it swelled into deeper power ere long, 
As the breeze that swept over her soul grew strong. 

" They bid me sing of thee, mine own, my sunny 
land! of thee! 

Am I not parted from thy shores by the mourn- 
ful-sounding sea? 

Doth not thy shadow wrap my soul ? — in silence 
let me die, 

In a voiceless dream of thy silvery founts and thy 
pure deep sapphire sky; 

How should thy lyre give here its wealth of buried 
sweetness forth 1 

Its tones, of summer's breathings born, to the wild 
winds of the north 1 

" Yet thus it shall be once, once more! — my spirit 

shall awake, 
And through the mists of death shine out, my 

country! for thy sake! 
That I maymakeiA.ee known, with all the beauty 

and the light. 
And the glory never more to bless thy daughter's 

yearning sight! 
Thy woods shall whisper in my song, thy bright 

streams warble by, 
Thy soul flow o'er my lips again — yet once, my 

Sicily! 

"There are blue heax'ens — far hence, far hence! 

but oh! their glorious blue! 
Its very night is beautiful, with the hyacinth's 

deep hue! 



It is above my own fair land, and round my laugh- 
ing home, 

And arching o'er my vintage-hills, they hang their 
cloudless dome, 

And making all the waves as gems, that melt along 
the shore. 

And steeping happy hearts in joy — that now is 
mine no more. 

■' And there are haunts in that green land — oh ! 
who may dream or tell, 

Of all the shaded loveliness it hides in grot and dell! 

By fountains flinging rainbow-spray on dark and 
glossy leaves, 

And bowers wherein the forest-dove her nest un- 
troubled weaves ; 

The myrtle dwells tliere, sending round the rich- 
ness of its breath. 

And the violets gleam like amethysts, from the 
dewy moss beneath. 

" And there are floating sounds that fill the skies 
through night and day. 

Sweet sounds ! the soul to hear them faints in 
dreams of heaven away ! 

They wander through the olive-woods, and o'er 
the shining seas. 

They mingle with the orange-scents that load the 
sleepy breeze ; 

Lute, voice, and bird, are blending there ; — it were 
a bliss to die, 

As dies a leaf, thy groves among, my flowery Si- 
cily ! 

" I may not thus depart — farewell ! yet no, my 

country ! no ! 
Is not love stronger than the grave 1 I feel it must 

be so! 
My fleeting spirit shall o'ersweep the mountains 

and the main. 
And in thy tender starlight rove, and through thy 

woods again. 
Its passion deepens — it prevails ! — I break my 

chain — I come 
To dwell a viewless thing, yet blest — in thy sweet 

air, my home !" 



And her pale arms dropped the ringing lyre 
There came a mist o'er her eye's wild fire. 
And her dark rich tresses, in many a fold, 
Loosed from their braids, down her bosom rolled. 

For her head sank back on the rugged wall, — 

A silence fell o'er the warrior's hall; 

She had poured out her soul with her song's last 

tone; 
The lyre was broken, the minstrel gone ! 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



307 



IVAN THE CZAR. 



" Ivan le Terrible, etant deja devenu vieux, as- 
sicgoit Novogorod. L(?s Boyards, le voyant affoibli, 
lui deinandcrent s'il ne voulait pas donner le com- 
mandement de I'assaut a son fils. Su fureur fut si 
grande a cette proposition, que rien ne put I'ap- 
paiser ; son fils se prosterna a ses pieds ; il le 
repoussa avec un coup d'une telle violence, que 
deux jours aprcs le nialheurtux en mourut. Le 
pere, alors au desespoir, devint indifferent a la 
guerre comme au pouvoir, et ne survocut que peu 
de mois a son ills." — Dix Annecs (TExil, par Ma- 
dame DE Stael. 



Gieb diesen Todten mir heraus. Ich muss 
Ihn wieder haben i • • • • 
' * * * Trostlose allmacht, 
Die nichteinmal in Gralter iliren arm 
Verlingern, eine kleine Ubereilung 
Mil Monscheuleben iiicht verbessern kann ! 

Schiller. 



He sat in silence on the ground, 

The old and haughty Czar ; 
Lonely, though princes girt him round, 

And leaders of the war : 
He had cast his jewelled sabre, 

That many a field had won. 
To the earth beside his youthful dead, 

His fair and first-born son. 

With a robe of ermine for its bed. 

Was laid that form of clay, 
Where the light a stormy sunset shed, 

Through the rich tent made way: 
And a sad and solemn beauty 

On the pallid face came down, 
Which the Lord of nations mutely watched, 

In the dust, with his renown. 

Low tones at last of wo and fear 

From his full bosom broke 5 — 
A mournful thing it was to hear 

How then the proud man spoke! 
The voice that through the combat 

Had shouted far and high, 
Came forth in strange, dull, hollow tones. 

Burdened with agony. 

" There is no crimson on thy cheek. 

And on thy lip no breath, 
I call thee, and dost thou not speak — 

They tell me this is death ! 
And fearful things are whispering 

That I the deed have done — 
For the honour of thy father's name. 

Look up, look up, my son ! 



" Well might I know death's hue and luien, 

But on thine aspect, boy! 
What, till this moment, have 1 seen, 

Save pride and tameless joy"? 
Swiftest thou wert to battle. 

And bravest there of all — 
How could I think a warrior's frame 

Thus like a flower should fall 1 

" I will not bear that still, cold look- 
Rise up, thou fierce and free! 

Wake as the storm wakes ! I will brook 
All, save this calm, from thee ! 

Lift brightly up, and proudly, 
Once more tliy kindling eyes! 

Hath my word lost its power on earth? 
I say to thee, arise ! 

" Didst thou not know I loved thee well 1 

Thoa didst not ! and art gone 
In bitterness of soul, to dwell 

Where man must dwell alone. 
Come back, young fiery spirit ! 

If but one hour, to learn 
The secrets of the folded heart, 

That seemed to thee so stern. 

" Thou wert the first, the first fair child, 

That in mine arms I pressed ; 
Thou wert the bright one, that hast smiled 

Like summer on my breast ! 
I reared thee as an eagle, 

To the chase thy steps I led, 
I bore thee on my battle-horse, 

I look upon thee — dead ! 

" Lay down my warlike banners here, 

Never again to wave. 
And bury my red sword and spear, 

Chiefs! in my first-born's grave' 
And leave me! — I have conquered, 

I have slain — my work is done ! 
Whom have I slain 1 — ye answer not— 

Thou too art mute, my son !'' 

And thus his wild lament was poured 

Through the dark resounding night. 
And the battle knew no more his sword. 

Nor the foaming steed his might. 
He heard strange voices moaning 

In every wind that sighed ; 
From the searching stars of heaven he shrank— 

Humbly the conqueror died.* 



' Originally published in the Literary Souvenir for 1827. 



308 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



CAROLAN'S PROPHECY.* 



Thy check too swiftly flushes; o'er tlune eye 
The lights and shndows come and go too fast, 
Thy tears gush forth too soon, and in thy voice 
Are sounds of tenderness too passionate 
For peace on earth ; oh! therefore, child of song! 
'Tis well thou shouldst depart. 



A SOUND of music, from amidst the hills, 
Came suddenly, and died ; a fitful sound 
Of mirth, soon lost in wail. — Again it rose, 
And sank in mournfulness. — There sat a bard, 
By a blue stream of Erin, where it swept 
Flashing through rock and wood ; the sunset's light 
Was on his wavy silver-gleaming hair, 
And the wind's whisper in the mountain-ash, 
Whose clusters drooped above. His head was 

bowed, 
His hand was on his harp, yet thence its touch 
Had drawn but broken strains ; and many stood, 
Waiting around, in silent earnestness, 
Th' unchaining of his soul, the gush of song ; 
Many, and graceful forms ! yet one alone. 
Seemed present to his dream ; and she indeed. 
With her pale virgin brow, and changeful cheek, 
And the clear starliglit of her serious eyes, 
Lovely amidst the flowing of dark locks 
And pallid braiding flowers, was beautiful, 
E'en painfully ! — a creature to behold 
With trembling midst our joy, lest aught unseen 
Should waft the vision from us, leaving earth 
Too dim without its brightnes^s ! — Did such fear 
O'ershadow, in that hour, the gifted one, 
By his own rushing stream? — Once more he gazed 
Upon the radiant girl, and yet once more 
From the deep chords his wandering hand brought 

out 
A few short festive notes, an opening strain 
Of bridal melody, soon dashed with grief, 
As if some wailing spirit in the strings 
Met and o'ermastered him : but yielding then 
To the strong prophet-impulse, mournfully, 
Like moaning waters, o'er the harp he poured 
The trouble of his haunted soul, and sang — 

Voice of the grave ! 

I hear thy thrilling call ; 
It comes in the dash of the foaming wave, 

In the sear leaf's trembling fall ! 
In the shiver of the tree, 

I hear thee, O thou voice 1 
And I would thy warning were but for me. 

That my spirit might rejoice. 



* Founded on a circumstance related of the Lish Bard, in 
the "Percy Anecdotes of Imagination." 



But thou art sent 

For the sad earth's young and fair, 
For the graceful heads that have not bent 

To the wintry hand of care ! 
They hear the wind's low sigh. 

And the river sweeping free, 
And the green reeds murmuring heavily 

And the woods — but they hear not thee I 

Long have I striven 

With my deep foreboding soul. 
But the full tide now its bounds hath riven, 

And darkly on must roll. 
There 's a young brow smiling near, 

With a bridal white-rose wreath, — 
Unto me it smiles from a flowery bier. 

Touched solemnly by death ! 

Fair art thou Morna ! 

The sadness of thine eye 
Is beautiful as silvery clouds 

On the dark-blue summer sky! 
And thy voice comes like the sound 

Of a sweet and hidden rill. 
That makes the dim woods tuneful round — 

But soon it must be still! 

Silence and dust 

On thy sunny lips must lie, 
Make not the strength of love thy trust, 

A stronger yet is nigh ! 
No strain of festal flovs^ 

That my hand for thee hath tried, 
But into dirge-notes wild and low, 

Its ranging tones have died. 

Young art thou, Morna! 

Yet on thy gentle head, 
Like heavy dew on the lily's leaves, 

A spirit hath been shed ! 
And the glance is thine which sees 

Through nature's awful heart — 
But bright things go with the summer-breeze, 

And thou too, must depart ! 

Yet shall I weepl 

I know that in thy breast 
There swells a fount of song too deep, 

Too powerful for thy rest ! 
And the bitterness I know, 

And the chill of this world's breath — 
Go, all undimmed, in thy glory go! 

Young and crowned bride of death ! 

Take hence to heaven 

Thy holy thoughts and bright, 
And soaring hopes, that were not given 

For the touch of mortal blight ! 
Might we follow iir thy track. 

This parting should not be I 
But the spring shall give us violets back, 

And every flower but thee I 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



309 



There was a burst of tears around the bard: 
All wept but one, and she serenely stood, 
With her clear brow and dark religious eye, 
Raised to the first faint star above the hills, 
And cloudless ; though it might be that her cheek 
Was paler than before. — So Morna heard 
The minstrel's prophecy. 

And spring returned, 
Bringing the earth her lovely things again. 
All, save the loveliest far ! A voice, a smile, 
A young sweet spirit gone. 



THE MOURNER FOR THE BARME- 
CIDES. 

O good old man ! how well in thee appears 
The constant service of the antique world ! 
Thou art not for the fashion of lliese times. 

As You Like It. 

Fallen was the House of Giafar ; and its name, 

The high romantic name of Barmecide, 

A sound forbidden on its own bright shores. 

By the swift Tygris' wave. Stern Haroun's 

wrath, 
Sweeping the mighty with their fame away. 
Had so passed sentence : but man's chainless heart 
Hides that within its depths, which never yet 
Th' oppressor's thought could reach. 

'Twas desolate 
Where Giafar's halls, beneath the burning sun. 
Spread out in ruin lay. The songs had ceased ; 
The lights, the perfumes, and the genii-tales, 
Had ceased ; the guests were gone. Yet still one 

voice 
Was there — the fountain's ; through those eastern 

courts. 
Over the broken marble and the grass. 
Its low clear music shedding mournfully. 

And still another voice ! — an aged man, 
Yet with a dark and fervent eye beneath 
His silvery hair, came, day by day, and sate 
On a white column's fragment; and drew forth, 
From the forsaken walls and dim arcades, 
A tone that shook them with its answering thrill 
To his deep accents. Many a glorious tale 
He told that sad yet stately solitude. 
Pouring his memory's fullness o'er its gloom. 
Like waters in the waste ; and calling up. 
By song or high recital of their deeds, 
Bright solemn shadows of its vanished race 
To people their own halls : with these alone. 
In all this rich and breathing world, his thoughts 
Held still unbroken converse. He had been 
Reared in this lordly dwelling, and was now 



The ivy of its ruins; unto which 
His fading hfe seemed bound. Day rolled on day, 
And from that scene the loneliness was fled ; 
For crowds around the gray-haired chronicler 
Met as men meet, within whose anxious hearts 
Fear with deep feeling strives ; till, as a breeze 
Wanders through forest-branches, and is met 
By one quick sound and shiver of the leaves, 
The spirit of his passionate lament. 
As through their stricken souls it passed, awoke 
One echoing murmur. — But this might not be 
Under a despot's rule, and summoned thence, 
The dreamer stood before the Caliph's throne : 
Sentenced to death he stood, and deeply pale, 
And with his white hps rigidly compressed ; 
Till, in submissive tones, he asked to speak 
Once more, ere thrust from earth's fair sunshine 

forth. 
Was it to sue for grace'' — his burning heart 
Sprang, with a sudden lightning, to his eye. 
And he was changed! — and thus, in rapid words, 
Th' o'ermastering thoughts, more strong than 

death found way. 

" And shall I not rejoice to go, when the noble 
and the brave. 

With the glory on their brows, are gone before 
me to the grave 1 

What is there left to look on now, what bright- 
ness in the land? — 

I hold in scorn the faded world, that wants their 
princely band ! 

" My chiefs! my chiefs! the old man comes, that 

in your halls was nursed. 
That followed you to many a fight, where flashed 

your sabres first ; 
That bore your children in his arms, your name 

upon his heart — 
Oh ! must the music of that name with him from 

earth depart 1 

" It shall not be ! — a thousand tongues, though hu- 
man voice were still. 

With that high sound the living air triumphantly 
shall fill ; 

The wind's free flight shall bear it on, as wander- 
ing seeds are sown, 

And the starry midnight whisper it, with a deep 
and thrilling tone. 

" For it is not as a flower whose scent with the 
dropping leaves expires, 

And it is not as a household lamp, that a breath 
should quench its fires ; 

It is written on our battle-fields with the writing 
of the sword. 

It hath left upon our desert-sands a light in bless- 
ings poured. 



310 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



" The founts, the many gushing founts, which to 

the wild ye gave, 
Of you, my chiefs, shall sing aloud, as they pour 

a joyous wave ; 
And the groves, with whose deep lovely gloom ye 

hung the pilgrim's way, 
Shall send from all their sighing leaves your 

praises on the day. 

" The very walls your bounty reared, for the 
stranger's homeless head, 

Shall find a murmur to record your tale, my glo- 
rious dead ! 

Though the grass be where ye feasted once, where 
lute and cittern rung. 

And the serpent in your palaces lie coiled amidst 
its young. 

" It is enough ! mine eye no more of joy or splen- 
dour sees, 

I leave your name in lofty faith, to the skies and 
to the breeze ! 

I go, since earth her flower hath lost, to join the 
bright and fair. 

And call the grave a kingly house, for ye, my 
chiefs, are there !" 

But while the old man sang, a mist of tears 
O'er Haroun's eyes had gathered, and a thought — 
Oh ! many a sudden and remorseful thought 
Of his youth's once-loved friends, the martyred 

race 
O'erflowed his softening heart. — " Live, live," he 

cried, 
" Thou faithful unto death ! live on, and still 
Speak of thy lords ; they were a princely band 1" 



THE SPANISH CHAPEL.* 



Weep not for those whom the veil of the tomb, 
In life's early morning, hath hid from our eyes, 

Ere sin threw a veil o'er the spirit's young bloom. 
Or earth had profaned what was born for the skies. 

Moore. 



I MADE a mountain-brook my guide, 
Through a wild Spanish glen, 

And wandered on its grassy side. 
Far from the homes of men. 

It lured me with a singing tone, 
And many a sunny glance. 

To a green spot of beauty lone, 
A haunt for old romance. 



• Suggested by a scene beautifully described in the "Recol 
lecljons of the Peninsula." 



A dim and deeply-bosomed grove 

Of many an aged tree. 
Such as the shadowy violets love, 

The fawn and forest-bee. 

The darkness of the chestnut bough 

There on the waters lay, 
The bright stream reverently below, 

Checked its exulting play ; 

And bore a music all subdued. 

And led a silvery sheen, 
On through the breathing solitude 

Of that rich leafy scene. 

For something viewlessly around 

Of solemn influence dwelt. 
In the soft gloom, and whispery sound, 

Not to be told, but felt : 

While sending forth a quiet gleam 

Across the wood's repose. 
And o'er the twilight of the stream, 

A lowly chapel rose. 

A pathway to that still retreat 
Through many a myrtle wound. 

And there a sight — how strangely sweet ! 
My steps in wonder bound. 

For on a brilliant bed of flowers, 

Even at the threshold made. 
As if to sleep through sultry hours, 

A young fair child was laid. 

To sleep? — oh! ne'er on childhood's eye, 

And silken lashes pressed, 
Did the warm living slumber lie. 

With such a weight of rest ! 

Yet still a tender crimson glow 
Its cheek's pure marble dyed — 

'T was but the light's faint streaming flow 
Through roses heaped beside. 

I stooped — the smooth round arm was chill. 
The soft lip's breath was fled, 

And the bright ringlets hung so still — 
The lovely child was dead ! 

"Alas!" I cried, "fair faded thing! 

Thou hast wrung bitter tears. 
And thou hast left a wo, to cling 

Round yearning hearts for years!" 

But then a voice came sweet and low — 

I turned, and near me sate 
A woman with a mourner's brow, 

Pale, yet not desolate. 

And in her still, clear, matron face, 

All solemnly serene, 
A shadowed image I could trace 

Of that young slumberer's mien. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



311 



" Stranger ! thou pitiest me," she said, 
With hps that faintly smiled, 

" As here I watch beside my dead, 
My fair and precious child. 

" But know, the time-worn heart may be 
By pangs in this world riven, 

Keener than theirs who yield, like me, 
An angel thus to Heaven!" 



THE CAPTIVE KNIGHT. 



The prisoned thrush may brook the cage, 
The captive eagle dies for rage. 

Lady of the Lake. 



'TwAS a trumpet's pealing sound ! 
And the knight looked down from the Paynim's 

tower. 
And a Christian host in its pride and power. 

Through the pass beneath him wound. 
Cease awhile, clarion ! Clarion, wild and shrill, 
Cease I let them hear the captive's voice — be still ! 

" I knew 'twas a trumpet's note! 
And I see my brethren's lances gleam. 
And their pennons wave by the mountain stream, 

And their plumes to tlie glad wind float! 
Cease awhile, clarion ! Clarion, wild and shrill, 
Cease ! let them hear the captive's voice — be still ! 

" I am here, with my heavy chain ! 
And I look on a torrent sweeping by, 
And an eagle rusliing to the sky. 

And a host, to its battle-plain! 
Cease awhile, clarion ! Clarion, wild and shrill. 
Cease ! let them hear the captive's voice — be still ! 

" Must I pine in my fetters here ? 
With the wild wave's foam, and the free bird's 

flight. 
And the tall spears glancing on my sight, 

And the trumpet in mine ear? 
Cease awhile, clarion ! Clarion, wild and shrill, 
Cease ! let them hear the captive's voice — be still ! 

" They are gone ! they have all passed by ! 
They in whose wars I had borne my part. 
They that I loved with a brother's heart, 

They have left me here to die ! 
Sound again, clarion! Clarion pour thy blast! 
Sound! for the captive's dream of hope is past." 



THE KAISER'S FEAST. 

I/3uis, Emperor of Germany, having put his brother, the 
Palsgrave Rodolphus, under the ban of the empire, (in the 
12th century,) that unfortunate Prince fled to England, where 
he died in neglect and poverty. "Alter his decease, his 
mother, Matilda, privately invited his children to return to 
Germany; and by her mediation, during a season of festivity 
when Louis kept wassail in the Castle of Heidelberg, the family 
of his brother presented tliemselves before him in the garb of 
suppliants, imploring pity and forgiveness. To this appeal 
'he victor softened."— il/(;fs Denger's Memoirs of the 
Queen of Bohemia. 

The Kaiser feasted in his hall, 

The red wine mantled high; 
Banners were trembling on the wall, 

To the peals of minstrelsy: 
And many a gleam and sparkle came 

From the armour hung around. 
As it caught the glance of the torch's flame. 

Or the hearth with pine boughs crowned. 

Why fell there silence on the chord 

Beneath the harper's hand? 
And suddenly, from that rich board. 

Why rose the wassail-band 1 
The strings were hushed— the knights made way 

For the queenly mother's tread. 
As up the hall, in dark array. 

Two fair-haired boys she led. 

She led them e'en to the Kaiser's place, 

And still before him stood; 
Till, with strange wonder, o'er his face 

Flushed the proud warrior-blood : 
And " Speak, my mother ! speak !" he cried, 

" Wherefore this mourning vest? 
And the clinging children by thy side. 

In weeds of sadness dresti" 

" Well may a mourning vest be mine. 

And theirs, my son, my son! 
Look on the features of thy Une 

In each fair little one ! 
Though grief awhile within their eyes 

Hath tamed the dancing glee. 
Yet there thine own quick spirit lies — 

Thy brother's children seel 

" And where is he, thy brother, where 1 

He, in thy home that grew, 
And smiling, with his sunny hair. 

Ever to greet thee flewl 
How woulil his arms thy neck entwine, 

His fond lips press thy brow! 
My son! oh, call these orphans thine — 

Thou hast no brother now ! 



313 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



" What! from their gentle eyes doth nought 

Speak of thy childhood's hours, 
And smite thee with a tender thought 

Of thy dead father's towers? 
Kind was thy boyish heart and true, 

When reared together there. 
Through the old woods like fawns ye flew — 

Where is thy brother — where"? 

" Well didst thou love him then, and he 

Still at thy side was seen ! 
How is it that such things can be. 

As though they n'j'er had been 1 
Evil was this world's breath, which came 

Between the good and brave ! 
Now must the tears of grief and shame 

Be offered to the grave. 

" And let them, let them there be poured ! 

Though all unfelt below. 
Thine own wrung heart, to love restored, 

Shall soften as they flow. 
Oh! death is mighty to make peace; 

Now bid his work be done ! 
So many an inward strife shall cease — 

Take, take these babes, my son !" 

His eye was dimmed — the strong man shook 

With feelings long suppressed ; 
Up in his arms the boys he took. 

And strained them to his breast. 
And a shout from all in the royal hall 

Burst forth to hail the sight ; 
And eyes were wet, midst the brave that met 

At the Kaiser's feast that night. 



ULLA, OR THE ADJURATION. 



Yet speak to me ! I have outwatched the stars, 
And gazed o'er heaven in vain, in searcli of thee. 
Speali to me ! I have wandered o'er the earth, 
And never found thy likeness. — Speak to me ! 
This. once — once more! 

Manfred. 

" Thou 'rt gone ! — thou 'rt slumbering low, 

With the sounding seas above thee ; 
It is but a restless wo, 

But a haunting dream to love thee ! 
Thrice the glad swan has sung. 

To greet the spring-time hours. 
Since thine oar at parting flung 

The white spray up in showers. 

There 's a shadow of the grave on thy hearth, and 

round thy home ; 
Come to me from the ocean's dead ! — thou 'rt surely 

of them — come!" 



'T was Ulla's voice — alone she stood 

In the Iceland summer night, 
For gazing o'er a glassy flood. 

From a dark rock's beetling height. 

'' I know thou hast thy bed 

Where the sea-weed's coil hath bound thee : 
The storm sweeps o'er thy head, 

But the depths are hushed around thee. 
What wind shall point the way 

To the chambers where thou 'rt lying 1 
Come to me thence, and say 

If thou thought'st on me in dying 1 

I will not shrink to see thee with a bloodless lip 

and cheek — 
Come to me from the ocean's dead ! — thou 'rt surely 

of them — speak !" 

She Ustened — 't was the wind's low moan, 
'T was the ripple of the wave, 

'T was the wakening ospray's cry alone, 
As it started from its cave. 

" I know each fearful spell 

Of the ancient Runic lay, 
Whose muttered words compel 

The tempest to obey. 
But I adjure not thee 

By magic sign or song. 
My voice shall stir the sea 

By love, — the deep, the strong ! 

By the might of woman's tears, by the passion ot 

her sighs. 
Come to me from the ocean's dead — by the vows 

we pledged — arise !" 

Again she gazed with an eager glance, 
Wandering and wildly bright ; 

She saw but the sparkhng waters dance 
To the arrowy northern hght. 

" By the slow and struggling death 

Of hope that loathed to part. 
By the fierce and withering breath 

Of despair on youth's high heart ; 
By the weight of gloom which cUngs 

To the mantle of the night. 
By the heavy dawn which brings 

Nought lovely to the sight, 

By all that from my weary soul thou hast wrung 

of grief and fear. 
Come to me from the ocean's dead — awake, arise, 

appear !" 

Was it her yearning spirit's dream. 

Or did a pale form rise. 
And o'er the hushed wave glide and gleam, 

With bright, still, mournful eyes? 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



313 



" Have the depths heard 1 — they have ! 

My voice prevails — thou 'rt there, 
Dim from thy watery grave, 

Oh ! thou that wert so fair ! 
Yet take me to thy rest ! 

There dwells no fear with love ; 
Let me slumber on thy breast, 

While the billows roll above ! 

Where the long-lost things lie hid, where the 

bright ones have their home. 
We will sleep among the ocean's dead — stay for 

me, stay ! — I come !" 

There was a sullen plunge below, 

A flashing on the main, 
And the wave shut o'er that wild heart's wo, 

Shut — and grew still again. 



THE EFFIGIES. 



Der rasche Kampf vcrewigt einen Mann : 
Er falle gleich, so preiset ihn das Lied. 
AEein die Thranen, die unendlichen 
Der iiberbliebnen, der verlass'nen Frau, 
Zahlt keine Nacliwelt. 

Goethe. 



Warrior ! whose image on thy tomb 

With shield and crested head. 
Sleeps proudly in the purple gloom 

By the stained window shed ; 
The records of thy name and race 

Have faded from the stone. 
Yet, through a cloud of years I trace 

What thou hast been and done. 

A banner, from its flashing spear 

Flung out o'er many a tight, 
A war-cry ringing far and clear, 

And strong to turn the flight ; 
An arm that bravely bore the lance 

On for the holy shrine ; 
A haughty heart and a kingly glance — 

Chief! were not these things thine : 

A lofty place where leaders sate 

Around the council-board ; 
In festive halls a chair of state 

When the blood- red wine was poured 
A name that drew a prouder tone 

From herald, harp, and bard ; 
Surely these things were all thine own, 

So hadst thou thy reward. 

Woman ! whose sculptured form at rest 

By the armed knight is laid. 
With meek hands folded o'er a breast 

In matron robes arrayed ; 



What was thy tale? — Oh ! gentle mate 

Of him, the hold and free. 
Bound unto his victorious fate. 

What bard hath sung of thee 7 

He wooed a bright and summer star — 

Thine was the void, the gloom, 
The straining eye that followed far 

His fast receding plume ; 
The heart-sick listening while his steed 

Sent echoes on the breeze ; 
The pang — but when did Fame take heed 

Of griefs obscure as these 1 

Thy silent and secluded hours 

Through many a lonely day, 
While bending o'er thy broidere'd flowers, 

With spirit far away ; 
Thy weeping midnight prayers for him 

Who fought on Syrian plains, 
Thy watchings till the torch grew dim — 

These fill no minstrel strains. 

A still, sad life was thine ! — long years 

With tasks unguerdoned fraught, 
Deep, quiet love, submissive tears, 

Vigils of anxious thought ; 
Prayer at the cross in fervor poured, 

Alms to the pilgrim given — 
Oh ! happy, happier than thy lord, 

In that lone path to heaven ! 



THE SPIRIT'S MYSTERIES. 



And slight, withal, may be the things which bring 
Back on the heart the weight which it would fling 

Aside forever ;— it may be a sound — 
A tone of music — summer's breath, or spring — 

A flower — a leaf— the ocean — which may wound — 
Striking th' electric chain wherewith we are darkly bound. 

Childe Harold. 



T^E power that dwelleth in sweet sounds to waken 
Vague yearnings, like the sailor's for the shore, 
And dim remembrances, whose hue seems taken 
From some bright former state, our own no 
more; 
Is not this all a mystery ? — Who shall say 
Whence are those thoughts, and whither tends 
their way 1 

The sudden images of vanished things, 

That o'er the spirit flash, we know not why ; 

Tones from some broken harp's deserted strings. 
Warm sunset hues of summers long gone by, 

A rippling wave — the dashing of an oar — 

A flower scent floating past our parents' door ; 



314 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



A word — scarce noted in its hour perchance, 
Yet back returning with a plaintive tone ; 

A smile — a sunny or a mournful glance, 
Full of sweet meanings now from this world 
flown; 

Are not these mysteries when to life they start, 

And press vain tears in gushes to the heart 1 

And the far wanderings of the soul in dreams, 
Calling up shrouded faces from the dead, 

And with them bringing soft or solemn gleams, 
Familiar objects brightly to o'erspread ; 

And wakening buried love, or joy, or fear, — ' 

These are night's mysteries — who shall make 
them clear 1 

And the strange inborn sense of coming ill. 
That ofltimes whispers to the haunted breast. 

In a low tone which nought can drown or still. 
Midst feasts and melodies a secret guest ; 

Whence doth that murmur wake, that shadow fall 1 

Why shakes the spirit thus 1 — 't is mystery all I 

Darkly we move — we press upon the brink 
Haply of viewless worlds, and know it not; 

Yes! it may be, that nearer than we think. 

Are those whom death has parted from our lot ! 

Fearfully, wondrously, our souls are made — 

Let us walk humbly on, but undismayed ! 

Humbly — for knowledge strives in vain to feel 
Her way amidst these marvels of the mind ; 

Yet undismayed — for do they not reveal 

Th' immortal being with our dust entwined 1 

So let us deem! and e'en the tears they wake 

Shall then be blest, for that high nature's sake. 



THE PALM-TREE.* 



\ 



It waved not through an Eastern sky, 
Beside a fount of Araby ; 
It was not fanned by southern breeze 
In some green isle of Indian seas. 
Nor did its graceful shadow sleep 
O'er stream of Afric, lone and deep. 

But fair the exiled Palm-tree grew 
Midst foliage of no kindred hue; 
Through the laburnum's dropping gold 
Rose the light shaft of orient mould. 
And Europe's violets, faintly sweet. 
Purpled the moss-beds at its feet. 

Strange looked it there ! — the willow streamed 
Where silvery waters near it gleamed ; 
The lime-bough lured the honey-bee 
To murmur by the Desert's Tree, 



* This incident is, I tiiink, recorded by De Lille, in his poem 
of "Les Jardins." 



And showers of snowy roses made 
A lustre in its fan-like shade. 

There came an eve of festal hours — 
Rich music filled that garden's bowers; 
Lamps that from flowering branches hung, 
On sparks of dew soft colours fluntr, 
And bright forms glanced — a fairy show — 
Under the blossoms to and fro. 

But one, a lone one, midst the throng, 
Seemed reckless of all dance or song : 
He was a youth of dusky mien. 
Whereon the Indian sun had been, 
Of crested brow, and long black hair — 
A stranger, like the Palm-tree there. 

And slowly, sadly, moved his plumes, 
Glittering athwart the leafy glooms : 
He passed the pale green olives by. 
Nor won the chestnut-flowers his eye ; 
But when to that sole Palm he came. 
Then shot a rapture through his frame ! 

To him, to him, its rustling spoke, 

The silence of his soul it broke! 

It whispered of his own bright isle, 

That lit the ocean with a smile ; 

Aye, to his ear that native tone 

Had something of the sea-wave's moan ! 

His mother's cabin home, that lay 
Where feathery cocoas fringed the bay ; 
The dashing of his brethren's oar, 
The conch-note heard along the shore; — 
All through his wakening bosom swept : 
He clasped his country's Tree and wept ! 

Oh! scorn him not ! — the strength, whereby 

The patriot girds himself to die, 

Th' unconquerable power, which fills 

The freeman battling on his hills. 

These have one fountain deep and clear — 

The same whence gushed that cliild-like tear! 



BREATHINGS OF SPRING. 



Thou giv'st me flowers, thou giv'st me songs ; — bring back 
The love that I have lost ! 



Whjt wak'st thou. Spring'? — sweet voices in the 
woods, 
And reed-like echoes, that have long been mute; 
Thou bringest back, to fill the solitudes, 

The lark's clear pipe, the cuckoo's viewless flute, 
Whose tone seems breathing mournfulness or glee 
Ev'n as our hearts may be. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



315 



And the leaves greet thee, Spring !— the joyous 
leaves, 
Whose tremblings gladden many a copse and 
glade, 
"Where each young spray a rosy flush receives, 
When thy south-wind hath pierced the whis- 
pery shade. 
And happy murmurs, running through the grass, 
Tell that thy footsteps pass. 

And the bright waters — they too hear thy call. 
Spring, the awakener ! thou hast burst their 
sleep ! 
Amidst the hollows of the rocks their fall 
Makes melody, and in the forests deep. 
Where sudden sparkles and blue gleams betray 
Their windings to the day. 

And flowers— the fairy-peopled world of flowers ! 

Thou from the dust hast set that glory free, 
Colouring the cowslip with the sunny hours. 

And penciling the wood-anemone; 
Silent they seem— yet each to thoughtful eye 
Glows with mute poesy. 

But what awak'st thou in the heart, O Spring! 

The human heart, with all its dreams and sighs? 
Thou that giv'st back so many a buried thing, 

Restorer of forgotten harmonies ! 
Fresh songs and scents break forth where'er thou 
art, 

What wak'stthou in the heart 1 

Too much, oh ! there too much ! we know not well 
Wherefore it should be thus, yet roused b.y thee, 
What fond strange yearnings, from the soul's deep 
cell, 
Gush for the faces we no more may see ! 
How are we haunted, in thy wind's low tone, 
By voices that are gone ! 

Looks of familiar love, that never more, 
Never on earth, our aching eyes shall meet, 

Past words of welcome to our household door. 
And vanished smiles, and sounds of parted feet — 

Spring! midst the murmurs of thy flowering trees. 
Why, why reviv'st thou these? 

Vain longings for the dead ! — why come they back 
With thy young birds, and leaves, and living 
blooms 1 
Oh ! is it not, that from thine earthly track 

Hope to thy world may look beyond the tombs 1 
Yes! gentle spring; no sorrow dims thine air, 
Breathed by our loved ones there ! 



THE ILLUMINATED CITY. 

The hills are glowed with a festive light, 
For the royal city rejoiced by night : 



There were lamps hung forth upon tower and tree, 
Banners were lifted and streaming free; 
Every tall pillar was wreathed with fire. 
Like a shooting meteor was every spire; 
And the outline of many a dome on high 
Was traced, as in stars, on the clear dark sky. 

I passed through the streets ; there were throngs 

on throngs — 
Like sounds of the deep were their mingled songs; 
There was music forth from each palace borne — 
A peal of the cymbal, the harp, 3nd horn; 
The forests heard it, the mountains rang. 
The hamlets woke to its haughty clang; 
Rich and victorious was every tone. 
Telling the land of her foes o'erthrown. 
Didst thou meet not a mourner for all the slainl 
Thousands lie dead on their battle-plain ! 
Gallant and true were the hearts that fell — 
Grief in the homes they have left must dwell; 
Grief o'er tlie asjject of childhood si)read, 
And bovv'ing the beauty of woman's head: 
Didst thou hear, midst the songs, not one tender 

moan. 
For the many brave to their slumbers gone? 

I saw not the face of a weeper there — 
Too strong, perchance, was the bright lamp's glare ! 
I heard not a wail midst the joyous crowd 
The music of victory was all too loud! 
Mighty it rolled on the winds afar. 
Shaking the streets like a conqueror's car; 
Through torches and streamers its flood swept by — 
How could I listen for moan or sigh ? 

Turn then away from life's pageants, turn, 

If its deep story thy heart would learn ! 

Ever too bright is that outward show, 

Dazzling the eyes till they see not wo. 

But lift the proud mantle which hides from thy 

view 
The things thoushouldst gaze on, the sad and true; 
Nor fear to survey what its folds conceal — 
So must thy spirit be taught to feel I 



THE SPELLS OP HOME. 



There blend the ties that strengthen 

Our hearts in hours of grief, 
The silver links that lengthen 

Joys visits when most brief. 

Bernard Barton. 

! fev the soft green light in the woody glade, 
{ On the banks of moss where thy childhood played ; 
By the household tree through which thine eye 
• First looked in love to the summer-sky ; 



316 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



By the dewy gleam, by the very breath 
Of the primrose tufts in the grass beneath, 
Upon thy heart there is laid a spell, 
Holy and precious — oh ! guard it well ! 

By the sleepy ripple of the stream, 

Which hath lulled thee into many a dream ; 

By the shiver of the ivy-leaves 

To the wind of morn at thy casement-eaves, 

By the bees' deep murmur in the limes, 

By the music of the Sabbath-chimes, 

By every sound of thy native shade, 

Stronger and dearer the spell is made. 

By the gathering round the winter hearth. 

When twilight called into household mirth ; 

By the fairy tale or the legend old 

In that ring of happy faces told ; 

By the quiet hour when hearts unite 

In the parting prayer and the kind "Good-night ;" 

By the smiling eye and the loving tone. 

Over thy life has a spell been thrown. 

And bless that gift ! — it hath gentle might, 
A guardian power and a guiding light. 
It hath led the freeman forth to stand 
In the mountain-battles of his land ; 
It hath brought the wanderer o'er the seas 
To die on the hills of his own fresh breeze ; 
And back to the gates of his father's hall, 
It hath led the weeping prodigal. 

Yes ! when thy heart in its pride would stray 
From the pure first loves of its youth away ; 
When the sullying breath of the world would come 
O'er the flowers it brought from its childhood's 

home ; 
Think thou again of the woody glade, 
And the sound by the rustling ivy made, 
Think of the tree at thy father's door. 
And the kindly spell shall have power once more ! 



ROMAN GIRL'S SONG. 



Roma, Roma, Roma ! 
Non 6 piu come era prima. 



Rome, Rome ! thou art no more 

As thou hast been ! 
On thy seven hills of yore 

Thou satst a queen. 

Thou hadst thy triumphs then 

Purpling the street, 
Leaders and sceptred men 

Bowed at thy feet. 



They that thy mantle wore. 

As gods were seen — 
Rome, Rome ! thou art no more 

As thou hast been ! 

Rome ! thine imperial brow 

Never shall rise : 
What hast thou left thee nowl— 

Thou hast thy skies ! 

Blue, deeply blue, they are, 

Gloriously bright ! 
Veiling thy wastes afar 

With coloured light. 

Thou hast the sunset's glow, 

Rome, for thy dower, 
Flushing tall cypress-bough, 

Temple and tower ! 

And all sweet sounds are thine, 

Lovely to hear. 
While night, o'er tomb and shrine, 

Rests darkly clear. 

Many a solemn hymn, 

By starlight sung. 
Sweeps through the arches dim, 

Thy wrecks among. 

Many a flute's low swell, 

On thy soft air 
Lingers, and loves to dwell 

With summer there. 

Thou hast the South's rich gifl 

Of sudden song, 
A charmed fountain, swifl, 

Joyous, and strong. 

Thou hast fair forms that move 

With queenly tread ; 
Thou hast proud fanes above 

Thy mighty dead. 

Yet wears thy Tiber's shore 

A mournful mien : — 
Rome, Rome 1 thou art no more 

As thou hast been ! 



THE DISTANT SHIP. 

The sea-bird's wing, o'er ocean's breast 

Shoots like a glancing star. 
While the red radiance of the west 

Spreads kindling fast and far ; 
And yet that splendour wins thee not, — 

Thy still and thoughtful eye 
Dwells but on one dark distant spot 

Of all the main and sky. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



317 



Look round thee !— o'er the slumbering deep 

A solemn glory broods ; 
A fire hath touched the beacon-steep, 

And all the golden woods : 
A thousand gorgeous clouds on high 

Burn within the amber light; — 
What spell, from that rich pageantry, 

Chains down thy gazing sight ] 

A softening thought of human cares, 

A feeling Unked to earth ! 
Is not yon speck a bark, which bears 

The loved of many a hearth 1 
Oh 1 do not Hope, and Grief, and Fear, 

Crowd her frail world even now, 
And manhood's prayer and woman's tear, 

Follow her venturous prow 1 

Bright are the floating clouds above, 

The glittering seas below ; 
But we are bound by cords of love 

To kindred weal and wo. 
Therefore, amidst this wide array 

Of glorious things and fair, 
My soul is on that bark's lone way, 

For human hearts are there. 



THE BIRDS OF PASSAGE. 

Birds, joj'ous birds of the wandering wing! 
Whence is it ye come with the flowers of spring! 
— " We come from the shores of the green old Nile, 
From the land where the roses of Sharon smile. 
From the palms that wave through the Indian sky, 
From the myrrh-trees of glowing. Araby. 

" We have swept o'er cities in song renowned — 

Silent they lie, with the deserts round ! 

We have crossed proud rivers, whose tide hath 

rolled 
All dark with the warrior-blood of old; 
And each worn wing hath regained its home. 
Under peasant's roof-tree, or monarch's dome." 

And what have ye found in the monarch's dome. 
Since last ye traversed the blue sea's foami 
— " We have found a change, we have found a pall. 
And a gloom o'ershadowing the banquet's hall. 
And a mark on the floor as of life-drops spilt, — 
Nought looks the same, save the nest we built!" 

Oh! joyous birds, it hath still been so; 
Through the halls of kings doth the tempest go ! 
But the huts of the hamlet lie still and deep. 
And the hills o'er their quiet a vigil keep. 
Say what have ye found in the peasant's cot. 
Since last ye parted from that sweet spot ? 

" A change we have found there — and many a 

change! 
Faces and footsteps and all tilings strange! 
30 



Gone are the heads of the silvery hair. 

And the young that were, have a brow of care, 

And the place is hushed when the children 

played, — 
Nought looks the same, save the nest we made!" 

Sad is your tale of the beautiful earth, 
Birds that o'ersweep it in power and mirth! 
Yet through the wastes of the trackless air, 
Ye have a guide, and shall we despair 1 
Ye over desert and deep have passed, — 
So may we reach our bright home at last! 



MOZART'S REaUIEM. 



A short time before the death of Mozart, a 
stranger of remarkable appearance, and dressed in 
deep mourning, called at his house, and requested 
him to prepare a requiem, in his best style, for the 
funeral of a distinguished person. The sensitive 
imagination of the composer immediately seized 
upon the circumstances as an omen of his own 
fate ; and the nervous anxiety with which he la- 
boured to fulfil the task, had the eflect of realizing 
his impression. He died within a few days after 
completing this magnificent piece of music, which 
was performed at his interment. 

These birds of Paradise but long to flee 
Baclc to their native mansion. 

Prophecy of Dante. 

A RF.auiEM! — and for whom'? 

For beauty in its bloom 1 
For valour fallen — a broken rose or sword? 

A dirge for king or chief, 

With pomp of stately grief. 
Banner, and torch, and waving plume deplored 1 

Net so, it is not so! 

That warning voice I know, 
From other worlds a strange mysterious tone ; 

A solemn funeral air 

It called me to prepare. 
And my heart answered secretly — my own! 

One more then, one more strain. 

In links of joy and pain 
Mighty the troubled spirit to inthral ! 

And let me breathe my dower 

Of passion and of power 
Full into that deep lay — the last of all ! 

The last ! — and I must go 

From this bright world below, 
This realm of sunshine, ringing with sweet sound! 

Must leave its festal skies. 

With all their melodies, 
That ever in my breast glad echoes found ! 



318 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



Yet have I known it long 

Too restless and too strong 
Within this clay hath been th' o'ermastering flame ; 

Swift thoughts, that came and went, 

Like torrents o'er me sent, 
Have shaken, as a reed, my thrilling frame. 

Like perfumes on the wind, 

Which none may stay or bind. 
The beautiful comes floating through my soul ; 

I strive with yearnings vain, 

The spirit to detain 
Of the deep harmonies that past me roll ! 

Therefore disturbing dreams 

Trouble the secret streams 
And founts of music that o'erflow my breast; 

Something far more divine 

Than may on earth be mine, 
Haunts my worn heart, and will not let me rest. 

Shall 1 then /ear the tone 

That breathes from worlds unknown 1— 
Surely these feverish aspirations there 

Shall grasp their full desire. 

And this unsettled fire, 
Burn calmly, brightly, in immortal air. 

One more then, one more strain, 

To earthly joy and pain 
A rich, and deep, and passionate farewell ! 

I pour each fervent thought 

With fear, hope, trembling, fraught, 
Into the notes that o'er my dust shall swell. 



THE IMAGE IN LAVA.* 

Thou thing of years departed ! 

What ages have gone by. 
Since here the mournful seal was set 

By love and agony ! 

Temple and tower have mouldered. 
Empires from earth have passed, 

And woman's heart hath left a trace 
Those glories to outlast ! 

And childhood's fragile image 

Thus fearfully enshrined, 
Survives the proud memorials reared 

By conquerors of mankind. 

Babe 1 wert thou brightly slumbering 
Upon thy mother's breast. 

When suddenly the fiery tomb 
Shut round each gentle guest 1 



* The impression of a woman's form, with an infant clasp- 
ed to the bosom, found at the uncovering of Herculaneum. 



A strange dark fate o'ertook you, 
Fair babe and loving heart ! 

One moment of a thousand pangs — 
Yet better than to part ! 

Haply of that fond bosom, 

On ashes here impressed. 
Thou wert the only treasure, child ! 

Whereon a hope might rest. 

Perchance all vainly lavished. 

Its other love had been, 
And where it trusted, nought remained 

But thorns on which to lean. 

Far better then to perish, 

Thy form within its clasp, 
Than live and lose thee, precious one ! 

From that impassioned grasp. 

Oh ! I could pass all relics 

Left by the pomps of old, 
To gaze on this rude monument, 

Cast in affection's mould. 

Love, human love ! what art thou 1 

Thy print upon the dust 
Outlives the cities of renown 

Wherein the mighty trust ! 

Immortal, oh ! immortal 

Thou art, whose earthly glow 

Hath given these ashes holiness — 
It must, it must be so ! 



FAIRY FAVOURS. 



-Give me but 



Something whereunto I may bind my heart ; 
Something to love, to rest upon, to clasp 
Affection's tendrils round. 



Would ST thou wear the gift of immortal bloom 1 
Wouldst thou smile in scorn at the shadowy tomb 1 
Drink of this cup ! it is richly fraught 
With balm from the gardens of Genii brought ; 
Drink, and the spoiler shall pass thee by, 
When the young all scattered like rose-leaves He. 

And would not the youth of my soul be gone. 
If the loved had left me, one by one 1 
Take back the cup that may never bless. 
The gift that would make me brotherless ! 
How should I live, with no kindred eye 
To reflect mine immortalitj 1 

Wouldst thou have empire, by sign or spell, 
Over the mighty in air that dwell 1 
Wouldst thou call the spirits of shore and steep 
To fetch thee jewels from ocean's deep 7 
Wave but this rod, and a viewless band 
Slaves to thy will, shall around thee stand. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



319 



And would not fear, at my coming then, 
Hush every voice in the homes of men "? 
Would not bright eyes in my presence quail 1 
Young cheeks with a nameless thrill turn pale 1 
No gift be mine that aside would turn 
The human love for whose founts I yearn ! 

Wouldst thou then read through the hearts of those 
Upon whose faith thou hast sought repose 1 
Wear this rich gem ! it is charmed to show 
When a change comes over affection's glow • 
Look on its flushing or fading hue, 
And learn if the trusted be false or true ! 

Keep, keep the gem, that I still may trust, 
Though my heart's wealth be but poured on dust ! 
Let not a doubt in my soul have place. 
To dim the light of a loved one's face ; 
Leave to the earth its warm sunny smile — 
That glory would pass could I look on guile ! 

Say then what boon of my power shall be 
Favoured of spirits ! poured forth on thee 1 
Thou scornest the treasures of wave and mine, 
Thou wilt not drink of the cup divine, 
Thou art fain with a mortal's lot to rest — 
Answer me ! how may I grace it best 1 

Oh ! give me no sway o'er the powers unseen, 

But a human heart where my own may lean ! 

A friend, one tender and faithful friend. 

Whose thoughts' free current with mine may blend. 

And leaving not either on earth alone. 

Bid the bright calm close of our lives be one ! 



A PARTING SONG. 



"Oh ! mes Amis, rappelez vous qiielqefois mes vers; mon 
ame y est empreinte." — Gorinne. 



When will ye think of me, my friends 1 

When will ye think of me 1 
When the last red light, the farewell of day, 
From the rock and the river is passing away. 
When the air with a deepening hush is fraught. 
And the heart grows burdened with tender thought ; 
Then let it be ! 

When will ye think of me, kind friends 1 

When will ye think of me ? — 
When the rose of the rich midsummer time 
Is filled with the hues of its glorious prime ; 
When ye gather its bloom, as in bright hours fled, 
From the walks where my footsteps no more may 
tread ; 

Then let it be ! 



When will ye think of me, sweet friends 1 

When will ye think of me 7 
When the sudden tears o'erflow your eye 
At the sound of some olden melody ; 
When ye hear the voice of a mountain stream, 
When ye feel the charm of a poet's dream ; 
Then let it be ! 

Thus let my memory be with you, friends 

Thus ever think of me ! 
Kindly and gently, but as of one 
From whom 't is well to be fled and gone ; 
As of a bird from a chain unbound, 
As of a wanderer whose home is found ; 

So let it be. 



THE BRIDAL DAY. 

On a monument in a Venetian church is an 
epitaph, recording that the remains beneath are 
those of a noble lady, who expired suddenly while 
standing as a bride at the altar. 



We bear her Iiome ! we bear her home ! 
Over the murmuring salt sea's foam; 
One who has fled from the war of life, 
From sorrow, pain, and the fever strife. 

Barry Cornwall. 

Bride! upon thy marriage-day, 
When thy gems in rich array 
Made the glistening mirror seem 
Asa star-reflecting stream. 
When the clustering pearls lay fair 
'Midst thy braids of sunny air. 
And the white veil o'er thee streaming. 
Like a silvery halo gleaming, 
Mellowed all that pomp and light 
Into something meekly bright; 
Did the fluttering of thy breath 
Speak of joy or wo beneath ? 
And the hue that went and came 
O'er thy cheek, like wavering flame. 
Flowed that crimson from th' unrest, 
Or the gladness of thy breast 7 
— Who shall tell us 1 — from thy bower, 
Brightly didst thou pass that hour; 
With the many-glancing oar. 
And the cheer along the shore, 
And the wealth of summer flowers 
On thy fair head cast in showers. 
And the breath of song and flute. 
And the clarion's glad salute, 
Swiftly o'er the Adrian tide 
Wert thou borne in pomp, young bride ! 
Mirth and music, sun and sky. 
Welcomed thee triumphantly I 



3:20 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



Yet, perchance, a chastening thought. 
In some deeper spirit wrought, 
Whispering, as untold it blent 
With the sounds of merriment, — 
"From the home of childhood's glee 
From the days of laughter free, 
From the love of many years, 
Thou art gone to cares and fears! 
To another path and guide, 
To a bosom yet untried ! 
Bright one! oh! there well may be 
Trembling 'midst our joy for thee." 

Bride ! when through the stately fane, 

Circled with thy nuptial train, 

'Midst the banners hung on high 

By thy warrior-ancestry, 

'Midst those mighty fathers dead, 

In soft beauty thou wast led ; 

When before the shrine thy form 

duivered to some bosom storm. 

When, like harp-strings with a sigh 

Breaking in mid-harmony, 

On thy lip the murmurs low 

Died with love's unfinished vow; 

When, like scattered rose-leaves, fled 

From thy cheek each tint of red, 

And the light forsook thine eye, 

And thy head sank heavily; 

Was that drooping but th' excess 

Of thy spirit's blessedness 1 

Or did some deep feeling's might. 

Folded in thy heart from sight. 

With a sudden tempest shower, 

Earthward bear thy life's young flower? 

— Who shall tell us? — on thy tongue 

Silence, and for ever, hung! 

Never to thy Up and cheek 

Rushed again the crimson streak 

Never to thine eye returned 

That which there had beamed and burned ! 

With the secret none might know. 

With thy rapture or thy wo. 

With thy marriage-robe and wreath. 

Thou Wert fled, young bride of death ! 

One, one lightning moment there 

Struck down triumph to despair, 

Beauty, splendour, hope, and trust, 

Into darkness — terror — dust! 

There were sounds of weeping o'er thee, 

Bride ! as forth thy kindred bore thee, 

Shrouded in thy gleaming veil. 

Deaf to that wild funeral-wail. 

Yet perchance a chastening thought. 

In some deeper spirit wrought. 

Whispering, while the stern sad knell 

On the air's bright stillness fell ; 

— " From the power of chill and change 

Souls to sever and estrange ; 



From love's wane — a death in life 

But to watch — a mortal strife : 

From the secret fevers known 

To the burning heart alone. 

Thou art fled — afar, away — 

Where these bhghts no more have sway ! 

Bright one ! oh ! there well may be 

Comfort 'midst our tears for thee !" 



THE ANCESTRAL SONG. 



A long war disturbed your mind— ■ 
Here your perfect peace is signed, 
'T is now full tide 'twixt night and day, 
End your moan, and come away ! 

Webster — Duchess of Malfy. 



Thkre were faint sounds of weeping ; — fear and 

gloom 
And midnight vigil in a stately room 
Of Lusign^n's old halls : — rich odours there 
Filled the proud chamber as with Indian air. 
And soft light fell, from lamps of silver thrown, 
On jewels that with rainbow lustre shone 
Over a gorgeous couch : — there emeralds gleamed, 
And deeper crimson from the ruby streamed 
Than in the heart-leaf of the rose is set. 
Hiding from sunshine. — Many a carcanet 
Starry with diamonds, many a burning chain 
Of the red gold, sent forth a radiance vain, 
And sad, and strange, the canopy beneath 
Whose shadowy curtains, round a bed of death, 
Hung drooping solemnly; — for there one lay 
Passing from all Earth's glories fast away, 
Amidst those queenly treasures: They had been 
Gifts of her lord, from far-off Paynim lands. 
And for his sake, upon their orient sheen 
She had gazed fondly, and with faint, cold hands 
Had pressed them to her languid heart once more, 
Melting in childUke tears. But this was o'er- 
Love's last vain clinging unto life ; and now — 
A mist of dreams was hovering o'er her brow, 
Her eye was fixed, her spirit seemed removed. 
Though not from Earth, from all it knew or loved, 
Far, far away! her handmaids watched around. 
In awe, that lent to each low midnight sound 
A might, a mystery; and the quivering light 
Of wind-swayed lamps, made spectral in their sight 
The forms of buried beauty, sad, yet fair. 
Gleaming along the walls with braided hair. 
Long in the dust grown dim ; and she, too, saw, 
But with the spirit's eye of raptured awe. 
Those pictured shapes! — a bright, yet solemn 

train, 
Beckoning, they floated o'er her dreamy brain. 
Clothed in diviner hues ; while on her ear 
Strange voices fell, which none besides might hear, 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



321 



Sweet, yet profoundly mournful, as the sigh 
Of winds o'er harp-strings through a midnight sky ; 
And thus it seemed, in that low thrilling tone, 
Th' ancestral shadows called away their own. 

Come, come, come ! 
Long thy fainting soul hath yearned 
For the step that ne'er returned ; 
Long thine anxious ear hath listened, 
And thy watchful eye hath glistened 
With the hope, whose parting strife 
Shook the (lower-leaves from thy life — 
Now the heavy day is done, 
Home awaits thee, wearied one ! 

Come, come, come ! 

From the quenchless thoughts that burn 
In the sealed heart's lonely urn ; 
From the coil of memory's chain 
Wound about the throbbing brain. 
From the veins of sorrow deep. 
Winding through the world of sleep ; 
From the haunted halls and bowers, 
Thronged with ghosts of happier hours ! 
Come, come, come ! 

On our dim and distant shore 

Aching love is felt no more ! 

We have loved with earth's excess — 

Past is now that weariness ! 

We have wept, that weep not now — 

Calm is each once beating brow ! 

We have known the dreamer's woes — 

All is now one bright repose ! 

Come, come, come ! 

Weary heart that long hast bled, 
Languid spirit, drooping head. 
Restless memory, vain regret. 
Pining love whose light is set. 
Come away! — 't is hushed 't is well ! 
Where by shadowy founts we dwell, 
All the fever-thirst is stilled. 
All the air with peace is filled, — 
Come, come, come ! 

And with her spirit rapt in that wild lay. 
She passed, as twilight melts to night, away! 



THE MAGIC GLASS. 

How lived, how loved, how died they 7 

Byron. 

" The Dead I the glorious Dead ! — And shall they 

rise? 
Shall they look on thee with their proud bright 



eyes : 



Thou ask'st a fearful spell ! 



Yet say, from shrine or dim sepulchral hall, 
What kingly vision shall obey my call? 

The deep grave knows it well ! 

"Would&t thou behold earth's conquerors ? shall 

they pass 
Before thee, flushing all the Magic Glass 

With triumph's long array! 
Speak ! and those dwellers of the marble urn 
Robed for the feast of victory shall return 

As on their proudest day. 

" Or wouldst thou look upon the lords of song? — 
O'er the dark mirror that immortal throng 

Shall waft a solemn gleam! 
Passing, with lighted eyes and radiant brows. 
Under the foliage of green laurel boughs, 

But silent as a dream." 

"Not these, O mighty master! — Though their 

lays 
Be unto man's free heart, and tears, and praise, 

Hallowed for evermore ! 
And not the buried conquerors! Let them sleep 
And let the flowery earth her Sabbaths keep 
In joy, from shore to shore ! 

"But, if the narrow house may so be moved. 
Call the bright shadows of the most beloved, 

Back from their couch of rest! 
That I may learn if their meek eyes be filled 
With peace, if human love hath ever stilled 

The yearning human breast." 

" Away, fond youth ! — An idle quest is thine ; 
These have no trophy, no memorial shrine; 

I know not of their place ! 
'Midst the dim valleys, with a secret flow. 
Their lives, like shepherd reed-notes, faint and 
low. 

Have passed, and left no trace, 

" Haply, begirt with shadowy woods and hills. 
And the wild sounds of melancholy rills, 

Their covering turf may bloom; 
But ne'er hath Fame made relics of its flowers, — 
Never hath pilgrim sought their household bowers, 

Or poet hailed their tomb." 

"Adieu, then, master of the midnight spell! 
Some voice, perchance, by those lone graves may 
tell 

That which I pine to know! 
I haste to seek, from woods and valleys deep. 
Where the beloved are laid in lowly sleep. 
Records of joy and wo."* 



' Originally published in the Literary Souvenir for 1830. 



322 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS 



CORINNE AT THE CAPITOL. 

Les femmes doivent penserqu'il est dans cette carriere bien 
peu de sorte qui puissent valoir la plus obscure vie, d'une 
femme aimee et d'une mere heureuse. 

Madame de Stael. 

Daughter of th' Italian heaven ! 
Thou, to whom its fires are given, 
Joyously thy car hath rolled 
Where the contjuerors passed of old ; 
And the festal sun that shone, 
O'er three* hundred triumphs gone, 
Makes thy day of glory bright, 
With a shower of golden light. 

Now thou tread'st th' ascending road, 
Freedom's foot so proudly trode ; 
While, from tombs of heroes borne. 
From the dust of empire shorn. 
Flowers upon thy graceful head, 
Chaplets of all hues are shed. 
In a soft and rosy rain, 
Touched with many a gemlike stain. 

Thou hast gained the summit now 
Music hails thee from below ; — 
Music, whose rich notes might stir 
Ashes of the sepulchre; 
Shaking with victorious notes 
All the bright air as it floats. 
Well may woman's heart beat high 
Unto that proud harmony ! 

Now afar it rolls — it dies — 
And thy voice is heard to rise 
With a low and lovely tone 
In its thrilling power alone; 
And thy lyre's deep silvery string, 
Touched as by a breeze's wing, 
Murmurs trembhngly at first. 
Ere the tide of rapture burst. 

All the spirit of thy sky 
Now hath lit thy large dark eye, 
And thy cheek a flush hath caught 
From the-joy of kindled thought; 
And the burning words of song 
From thy lips flow fast and strong, 
With a rushing stream's dehght 
In the freedom of its might. 

Radiant daughter of the sun ! 
Now thy living wreath is won. 
Crowned of Rome ! — Oh ! art thou not 
Happy in that glorious lot 1 — 
Happier, happier far than thou, 
With the laurel on thy brow, 
She that makes the humblest hearth 
Lovely but to one on earth ! 

• The trebly hundred triumphs.— J5yro«. 



THE RUIN. 

Oh ! 'tis the heart that magnifies this life 
Making a truth and beauty of its own. 

Wordsworth. 
Birth has gladdened it : Death has sanctified it. 

Guesses at Truth. 

No dower of storied song is thine, 

O desolate abode ! 
Forth from thy gates no glittering line 

Of lance and spear hath flowed. 
Banners of knighthood have not flung 

Proud drapery o'er thy walls. 
Nor bugle notes to battle rung 

Through thy resounding halls. 

Nor have rich bowers of pleasaunce here 

By courtly hands been dressed. 
For Princes, from the chase of deer, 

Under green leaves to rest: 
Only some rose, yet lingering bright 

Beside thy casements lone, 
Tells where the spirit of delight 

Hath dwelt, and now is gone. 

Yet minstrel tale of harp and sword, 

And sovereign beauty's lot. 
House of quenched light and silent board ! 

For me thou needest not. 
It is enough to know that here. 

Where thoughtfully I stand. 
Sorrow and love, and hope and fear, 

Have linked one kindred band. 

Thou bindest me with mighty spells! 

— A solemnizing breath, 
A presence all around thee dwells, 

Of human life and death. 
I need but pluck yon garden flower 

From where the wild weeds rise. 
To wake, with strange and sudden power, 

A thousand sympathies. 

Thou hast heard many sounds, thou hearth 

Deserted now by all! 
Voices at eve here met in mirth 

Which eve may ne'er recall. 
Youth's buoyant step, and woman's tone. 

And childhood's laughing glee. 
And song and prayer, have all been known, 

Hearth of the dead ! to thee. 

Thou hast heard blessings fondly poured 

Upon the infant head, 
As if in every fervent word 

The living soul were shed ; 
Thou hast seen partings, such as bear 

The bloom from life away — 
Alas ! for love in changeful air, 

Where nought beloved can stay ! 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



323 



Here, by the restless bed of pain, 

The vigil hath been kept, 
Till sunrise, bright with hope in vain, 

Burst forth on eyes that wept : 
Here hath been felt the hush, the gloom, 

The breathless influence, shed 
Through the dim dwelling, from the room 

Wherein reposed the dead. 

The seat left void, the missing face, 

Have here been marked and mourned, 
And time hath filled the vacant place, 

And gladness hath returned ; 
Till from the narrowing household chain 

The links dropped one by one ! 
And homewards hither, o'er the main. 

Came the spring-birds alone. 

Is there not cause, then— cause for thought, 

Fixed eye and lingering tread. 
Where, writh their thousand mysteries fraught. 

Even lowUest hearts have bled"? 
Where, in its ever-haunting thirst 

For draughts of purer day, 
Man's soul, with fitful strength, hath burst 

The clouds that wrapt its way 1 

Holy to human nature seems 

The long-forsaken spot ; 
To deep affections, tender dreams, 

Hopes of a brighter lot ! 
Therefore in silent reverence here. 

Hearth of the dead! I stand. 
Where joy and sorrow, smile and tear, 

Have linked one household band. 



Though o'er the spirit each hath charm and power, 
Yet not for these I ask one lingering hour. 

But by strong sympathies, whose silver cord 
Links me to mortal weal, my soul is bound ; 

Thoughts of the human hearts, that here have 
poured 
Their anguish forth, are with me and around; — 

I look back on the pangs, the burning tears, 

Known to these altars of a thousand years. 

Send up a murmur from the dust, Remorse! 

That here hast bowed with ashcri on thy head; 
And thou still battling with the tempest's force — 

Thou, whose bright spirit through all time has 
bled— 
Speak, wounded Love ! if penance here, or prayer, 
Hath laid one haunting shadow of despair "? 

No voice, no breath! — of conflicts past, no trace! 

— Does not this hush give answer to my quest 1 
Surely the dread religion of the place 

By every grief hath made its might confest ! 
— Oh! that within my heart I could but keep 
Holy to Heaven, a spot thus pure, and still, and 
deep! 



THE SONG OF NIGHT. 



O night, 
And storm, and darkness ! ye are wondrous strong 
Yet lovely in your strenglhl — Byron. 



THE MINSTER. 

A fit abode, wherein appear enshrined 
Our hopes of immortality.— Byron. 

Speak low!— the place is holy to the breath 
Of awful harmonies, of whispered prayer ; 

Tread lightly I— for the sanctity of death 
Broods with a voiceless influence on the air: 

Stern, yet serene!— a reconciling spell. 

Each troubled billow of the soul to quell. 

Leave me to linger silently awhile ! 

— Not for the light that pours its fervid streams 
Of rainbow glory down through arch and aisle, 

KindUng old banners into haughty gleams. 
Flushing proud shrines, or by some warrior's tomb 
Dying away in clouds of gorgeous gloom : 

Not for rich music, though in triumph pealing. 
Mighty as forest sounds when winds are high; 

Nor yet for torch, and cross, and stole, revealing 
Through incense-mists their sainted pageant- 
ry:— 



I COME to thee, O Earth! 
With all my gifts! — for every flower sweet dew, 
In bell and urn, and chalice, to renew 

The glory of its birth. 

Not one which glimmering lies 
Far amidst folding hills, or forest leaves. 
But, through its veins of beauty, so receives 

A spirit of fresh dyes. 

I come with every star ; 
Making thy streams, that on their noon-day track, 
Give me but the moss, the reed, the hly back. 

Mirrors of worlds afar. 

I come with peace; — I shed 
Sleep through thy wood-walks, o'er the honey-bee. 
The lark's triumphant voice, the fawn's young 
glee, 

The hyacinth's meek head. 

On my own heart I lay 
The weary babe; and seaUng with a breath 
Its eyes of love, send fairy dreams, beneath 

The shadowing lids to play. 



324 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



I come with mightier things ! 
Who calls me silent 1 — I have many tones — 
The dark skies thrill with low, mysterious moans, 

Borne on my sweeping wings. 

I waft them not alone 
From the deep organ of the forest shades, 
Or buried streams, unheard amidst their glades, 

Till the blight day is done; 

But in the human breast 
A thousand still small voices I awake, 
Strong, in their sweetness, from the soul to shake 

The mantle of its rest. 

I bring them from the past : 
From true hearts broken, gentle spirits torn. 
From crushed affections, which, though long o'er- 
borne. 

Make their tones heard at last. 

I bring them from the tomb ; 
O'er the sad couch of late repentant love 
They pass — though low as murmurs of a dove — 

Like trumpets through the gloom. 

I come with all my train : 
Who calls me lonely? — Hosts around me tread, 
The intensely bright, the beautiful, — the dead, — 

Phantoms of heart and brain ! 

Looks from departed eyes — 
These are my lightnings ! — filled with anguish vain. 
Or tenderness too piercing to sustain, 

They smite with agonies. 

I, that with soft control. 
Shut the dim violet, hush the woodland song, 
I am the avenging one ! the armed — the strong, 

The searcher of the soul ! 

I, that shower dewy light 
Through slumbering leaves, bring storms ! — the 

tempest-birth 
Of memory, thought, remorse : — Be holy, earth ! 
I am the solemn night !''' 



THE STORM PAINTERt IN HIS DUN- 
GEON. 

Where of ye, O tempests, is the goal ? 
Are ye like those that shake the human breast ? 
Or do ye find at length, like eagles, some high nest 7 
Childe Harold. 

Midnight, and silence deep ! 
The air is filled with sleep, 
With the stream's whisper, and the citron's breath ; 



* Originally published in tlie Winter's Wreath, for 183(). 

* Pietro Mulier, called II Tempesta. from his surprising pic- 



The fixed and solemn stars 
Gleam through my dungeon bars- 
Wake, rushing winds! this breezeless calm is death! 

Ye watch-fires of the skies ! 

The stillness of your eyes 
Looks too intensely through my troubled soul : 

I feel this weight of rest 

An earth-load on my breast — 
Wake, rushing winds,awake ! and, dark clouds, roll ! 

I am your own, your child, 

O ye, the fierce and wild 
And kingly tempests ! — will ye not arise 1 

Hear the bold spirit's voice, 

That knows not to rejoice 
But in the peal of your strong harmonies. 

By sounding ocean-waves, 

And dim Calabrian caves, 
And flashing torrents, I have been your mate ; 

And with the rocking pines 

Of the olden Apennines, 
In your dark path stood fearless and elate : 

Your lightnings were as rods, 

That smote the deep abodes 
Of thought and vision — and the stream gushed free; 

Come, that my soul again 

May swell to burst its chain — 
Bring me the music of the sweeping sea ! 

Within me dwells a flame, 

An eagle caged and tame. 
Till called forth by the harping of the blast ; 

Then is its triumph's hour, 

It springs to sudden power. 
As mounts the billow o'er the quivering mast. 

Then, then, the canvass o'er, 

With hurried hand I pour 
The lava-waves and gusts of my own soul ! 

Kindling to fiery life 

Dreams, worlds, of pictured strife ; — 
Wake, rushing vrinds, awake ! and, dark clouds, roll ! 

Wake, rise ! the reed may bend. 

The shivering leaf descend, 
The forest branch give way before your might 

But I, your strong compeer. 

Call, summon, wait you here, — 
Answer, my spirit ! — answer, storm and night ! 



tures of storms. "His compositions," says Lanzi, " inspire a 
real horror, presenting to our eyes death-devoted ships over- 
taken by tempests and darkness; fired by lightning; now 
rising on the mountain wave, and again submerged in the 
abyss of ocean." During an imprisonment of five years in 
Genoa, the pictures which he painted in his dungeon were 
marked by additional power and gloom. — Sea Lanzi's His- 
tory of Painting, translated by Roscoe. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



32& 



DEATH AND THE WARRIOR. 

" Ay, Warrior, arm ! and wear thy plume 

On a proud and fearless brow ! 
I am the lord of the lonely tomb, 

And a mightier one than thou ! 

" Bid thy soul's love farewell, young chief, 

Bid her a long farewell ! 
Like the morning's dew shall pass that grief — 

Thou comest with me to dwell ! 

" Thy bark may rush through the foaming deep, 

Thy steed o'er the breezy hill ; 
But they bear thee on to a place of sleep. 

Narrow, and cold, and chill !" 

" Was the voice I heard, thy voice, O Death 1 

And is thy day so near 1 
Then on the field shall my life's last breath 

Mingle with victory's cheer ! 

" Banners shall float, with the trumpet's note, 

Above me as I die ! 
And the palm tree wave o'er my noble grave, 

Under the Syrian sky. 

" High hearts shall burn in the royal hall, 
When the minstrel names that spot ; 

And the eyes I love shall weep my fall, — 
Death, Death ! I fear thee not !" 

" Warrior ! thou bearest a haughty heart ; 

But I can bend its pride ! 
How shouldst thou know that thy soul will part 

In the hour of victory's tide 1 

" It may be far from thy steel-clad bands. 

That I shall make thee mine ; 
It may be lone on the desert sands, 

Where men for fountains pine ! 

" It may be deep amidst heavy chains, 

In some strong Paynim hold ; — 
I have slow dull steps and lingering pains, 

Wherewith to tame the bold !" 

" Death, Death ! I go to a doom unblest, 

If this indeed must be ; 
But the cross is bound upon my breast, 

And I may not shrink for thee ! 

" Sound, clarion, sound ! — for my vows are given 

To the cause of the holy shrine ; 
I bow my soul to the will of Heaven, 

O Death ! — and not to thine !" 



THE TWO VOICES. 

Two solemn Voices, in a funeral strain. 
Met as rich sunbeams and dark bursts of rain 
Meet in the sky : 



" Thou art gone hence !" one sang; " Our light is 

flown. 
Our beautiful, that seemed too much our own, 
Ever to die. 

" Thou art gone hence!— our joyous hills among 
Never again to pour thy soul in song. 

When spring-flowers rise ! 
Never the friend's familiar step to meet 
With loving laughter, and the welcome sweet 

Of thy glad eyes." 

"Thou art gone home, gone home!" then, high 

and clear. 
Warbled that other Voice : " Thou hast no tear 

Again to shed. 
Never to fold the robe o'er secret pain, 
Never, weighed down by Memory's clouds, again 

To bow thy head. 

"Thou art gone home! oh! early crowned and 

blest ! 
Where could the love of that deep heart find rest 

With aught below 1 
Thou must have seen rich dream by dream decay, 
All the bright rose-leaves drop from life away — 
Thrice blest to go !" 

Yet sighed again that breeze-like Voice of grief — 
" Thou art gone hence! alas! that aught so brief, 

So loved should be ! 
Thou tak'st our summer hence ! — the flower, the 

tone. 
The music of our being, all in one, 

Depart with thee ! 

" Fair form, young spirit, morning vision fled ! 
Canst thou be of the dead, the awful deadl 

The dark unknown 1 
Yes ! to the dwelling where no footsteps fall. 
Never again to light up hearth or hall. 

Thy smile is gone !" 

"Home, home!" once more th' exulting Voice 

arose : 
" Thou art gone home ! from that divine repose 

Never to roam I 
Never to say farewell, to weep in vain. 
To read of change, in eyes beloved, again — 
Thou art gone home I 

" By the bright waters now thy lot is cast, — 
Joy for thee, happy friend ! thy bark hath past 

The rough sea's foam ! 
Now the long yearnings of thy soul are stilled, — 
Home! home! — thy peace is won, thy heart is 
filled. 

— Thou art gone home!" 



326 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



THE PARTING SHIP. 



A glittering ship that hath the plain 
Of ocean for her own domain. 

WordsiBorth. 

Go, in thy glory, o'er the ancient sea, 

Take with thee gentle winds thy sails to swell ; 

Sunshine and joy upon thy streamers be, — 
Fare thee well, bark, farewell ! 

Proudly the flashing billow thou hast cleft. 

The breeze yet follows thee with cheer and song; 

Who now of storms hath dream or memory left 7 
And yet the deep is strong ! 

But go thou triumphing, while still the smiles 
Of summer tremble on the water's breast ! 

Thou shalt be greeted by a thousand isles, 
In lone, wild beauty drest. 

To thee a welcome, breathing o'er the tide, 
The genii groves of Araby shall pour; 

Waves that enfold the pearl shall bathe thy side, 
On the old Indian shore. 

Oft shall the shadow of the palm-tree lie 

O'er glassy bays wherein thy sails are furled, 

And its leaves whisper, as the wind sweeps by. 
Tales of the elder world. 

Oft shall the burning stars of Southern skies. 
On the mid-ocean see thee chained in sleep, 

A lonely home for human thoughts and ties, 
Between the heavens and deep. 

Blue seas that roll on gorgeous coasts renowned, 
By night shall sparkle where thy prow makes 
way; 

Strange creatures of the abyss that none may sound, 
In thy broad wake shall play. 

From hills unknown, in mingled joy and fear. 
Free dusky tribes shall pour, thy flag to mark; 

Blessings go with thee on thy lone career ! 
Hail, and farewell, thou bark ! 

A long farewell ! — Thou wilt not bring us back. 
All whom thou bearest far from home and hearth. 

Many are thine, whose steps no more shall track 
Their own sweet native earth ! 

Some wilt thou leave beneath the plantain's shade. 
Where through the foliage Indian suns look 
bright ; 

Some, in the snows of wintry regions laid, 
By the cold northern light. 



And some, far down below the sounding wave, — 
Still shall they lie, though tempests o'er them 
sweep ; 

Never may flower be strewn above their grave 
Never may sister weep ! 

And thou — the billow's queen — even thy proud 
form 

On our glad sight no more perchance may swell; 
Yet God alike is in the calm and storm — 

Fare thee well, bark ! farewell ! 



THE LAST TREE OP THE FOREST. 

Whisper, thou Tree, thou lonely Tree, 

One, where a thousand stood ! 
Well might proud tales be told by thee, 

Last of the solemn wood ! 

Dwells there no voice amidst thy boughs, 

With leaves yet darkly green 1 
Stillness is round, and noontide glows — 

Tell us what thou hast seen. 

" I have seen the forest shadows lie 

Where men now reap the corn ; 
I have seen the kingly chase rush by 

Through the deep glades at morn, 

"With the glance of many a gallant spear, 

And the wave of many a plume. 
And the bounding of a hundred deer. 

It hath lit the woodland's gloom. 

" I have seen the knight and his train ride past, 

With his banner borne on high ; 
O'er all my leaves there was brightness cast 

From his gleaming panoply. 

" The Pilgrim at my feet hath laid 
His palm branch 'midst the flowers, 

And told his beads, and meekly prayed. 
Kneeling, at vesper-hours. 

" And the merry-men of wild and glen, 

In the green array they wore, 
Have feasted here with the red wine's cheer, 

And the hunter's song of yore. 

"And the minstrel, resting in my shade, 

Hath made the forest ring 
With the lordly tales of the high Crusade, 

Once loved by chief and king. 

" But now the noble forms are gone, 

That walked the earth of old; 
The soft wind hath a mournful tone, 

The sunny light looks cold. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



327 



•' There is no glory left us now, 
Like the glory with the dead : — 

I would that where they slumber low 
My latest leaves were shed !" 

Oh! thou dark Tree, thou lonely Tree, 

That mournest for the past ! 
A peasant's home in thy shades I see, 

Embowered from every blast. 

A lovely and a mirthful sound 

Of laughter meets mine ear ; 
For the poor man's children sport around 

On the turf, with nought to fear. 

And roses lend that cabin's wall 

A happy summer-glow; 
And the open door stands free to all 

For it recks not of a foe. 

And the village bells are on the breeze, 
That stirs thy leaf, dark Tree ! 

How can I mourn, 'midst things like these. 
For the stormy past, with thee 7 



THE STREAMS. 



The power, the beauty, and the majesty, 

That had their haunts in dale or piny mountain, 

Or forest by slow stream, or pebbly spring, 

Or chasms and watery depths; all those have vanished ! 

They live no longer in the faith of heaven, 

But still the heart doth need a language ! 

Coleiidge's Wallenstein. 

Ye have been holy, O founts and floods! 
Ye of the ancient and solemn woods, 
Ye that are born of the valleys deep. 
With the water-flowers on your breast asleep. 
And ye that gush from the sounding caves — 
Hallowed have been your waves. 

Hallowed by man, and his dreams of old. 
Unto beings not of this mortal mould 
Viewless, and deathless, and wondrous powers. 
Whose voice he heard in his lonely hours, 
And sought with its fancied sound to still 
The heart earth could not fill. 

Therefore the flowers of bright summers gone, 
O'er your sweet waters, ye streams ! were thrown 
Thousand of gifts, to the sunny sea 
Have ye swept along in your wanderings free. 
And thrilled to the murmur of many a vow — 
Where all is silent now ! 

Nor seems it strange that the heart hath been 
So linked in love to your margins green; 
That still, though ruined, your early shrines 
In beauty gleam through the southern vines 



And the ivyed chapels of colder skies. 
On your wild banks arise. 

For the loveliest scenes of the glowing earth. 
Are those, bright streams! where your springs 

have birth; 
Whether their caverned murmur fills, 
With a tone of plaint the hollow hills. 
Or the glad sweet laugh of their healthful flow 
Is heard 'midst the hamlets low. 

Or whether ye gladden the desert-sands. 
With a joyous music to Pilgrim bands. 
And a flash from under some ancient rock. 
Where a shepherd-king might have watched his 

flock. 
Where a few lone palm-trees lift their heads. 
And a green Acacia spreads. 

Or whether, in bright old lands renowned. 
The laurels thrill to your first-born sound. 
And the shadow, flung from the Grecian pine, 
Sweeps vi'ith the breeze o'er your gleaming line. 
And the tall reeds whisper to your waves 
Beside heroic graves. 

Voices and lights of the lonely place ! 
By the freshest fern your path we trace ; 
By the brightest cups on the emerald moss. 
Whose fairy goblets the turf emboss, 
By the rainbow-glancing of insect-wings, 
In a thousand mazy rings. 

There sucks the bee, for the richest flowers 
Are all your own through the summer-hours : 
There the proud stag his fair image knows. 
Traced on your glass beneath alder-houghs, 
And the Halcyon's breast, like the skies arrayed, 
Gleams through the willow-shade. 

But the wild sweet tales, that with elves and fays 
Peopled your banks in olden days. 
And the memory left by departed love, 
To your antique founts in glen and grove, 
And the glory born of the poet's dreams — 

These are your charms, bright streams ! 

Now is the time of your flowery rites. 
Gone by with its dances and young delights : 
From your marble urns ye have burst away, 
From your chapel-cells to the laughing day; 
Low lie your altars with moss o'ergrown, 
— And the woods again are lone. 

Yet holy still be your living springs 
Haunts of all gentle and gladsome things ! 
Holy, to converse with nature's lore. 
That gives the worn spirit its youth once more, 
And to silent thoughts of the love divine. 
Making the heart a shrine ! 



328 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



THE VOICE OF THE WIND. 



There is nothing in the wide world so like the voice of a spi. 
rit. — Gray's Letters. 



Oh! many a voice is thine, thou Wind! full many 
a voice is thine, 

From every scene thy vf'mg o'ersweeps thou bear 
est a sound and sign ; 

A minstrel wild and strong thou art, with a mas- 
tery all thine own, 

And the spirit is thy harp, O Wind ! that gives 
the answering tone. 

Thou hast been across red fields of war, where 

shivered helmets lie, 
And thou bringest thence the thrilling note of a 

clarion in the sky; 
A rustling of proud banner-folds, a peal of stormy 

drums, — 
All these are in thy music met, as when a leader 

comes. 

Thou hast been o'er solitary seas, and from their 
wastes brought back 

Each noise of waters that awoke in the mystery of 
thy track; 

The chime of low soft southern waves on some 
green palmy shore, 

The hollow roll of distant surge, the gathered bil- 
lows roar. 

Thou art come from forests dark and deep, thou 

mighty rushing Wind! 
And thou bearest all their unisons in one full swell 

combined ; 
The restless pines, the moaning stream, all hidden 

things and free. 
Of the dim old sounding wilderness, have lent 

their soul to thee. 

Thou art come from cities lighted up for the con- 
queror passing by, 

Thou art wafting from their streets a sound of 
haughty revelry; 

The rolling of triumphant wheels, the harpings in 
the hall, 

The far-oif shout of multitudes, are in thy rise and 
fall. 

Thou art come from kingly tombs and shrines, 

from ancient minsters vast. 
Through the dark aisles of a thousand years thy 

lonely wing hath passed ; 
Thou hast caught the anthem's billowy swell, the 

stately dirge's tone. 
For a chief, with sword, and shield, and helm, to 

his place of slumber gone. 



Thou art come from long- forsaken homes, wherein 

our young days flew, 
Thou hast found sweet voices lingering there, the 

loved, the kind, the true; 
Thou callcst back those melodies, though now all 

changed and fled, — 
Be still, be still, and haunt us not with music 

from the dead ! 

Are all these notes in thee, wild Wind? these 

many notes in thee? 
Far in our own unfathomed souls their fount must 

surely be ; 
Yes! buried, but unsleeping, there Thought 

watches, Memory lies, 
From whose deep urn the tones are poured, 

through all Earth's harmonies^^i 



THE VIGIL OF ARMS.* 

A SOUNDING step was heard by night 

In a church where the mighty slept, 
As a mail-clad youth, till morning's light, 

Midst the tombs his vigil kept. 
He walked in dreams of power and fame, 

He lifted a proud, bright eye, 
For the hours were few that withheld his name 

From the roll of chivalry. 

Down the moon-lit aisles he paced alone, 

With a free and stately tread; 
And the floor gave back a muffled tone 

From the couches of the dead : 
The silent many that round him lay, 

The crowned and helmed that were. 
The haughty chiefs of the war-array — 

Each in his sepulchre! 

But no dim warning of time or fate 

That youth's flushed hopes could chill, 
He moved through the trophies of buried state 

With each proud pulse throbbing still. 
He heard, as the wind through the chancel sung, 

A swell of the trumpet's breath; 
He looked to the banners on high that hung, 

And not to the dust beneath. 

And a royal masque of splendour seemed 

Before him to unfold ; 
Through the solemn arches on it streamed, 

With many a gleam of gold : 



The candidate for knighthood was under the necessity 
of keeping watch, the night before his inauguration, in a 
church, and completely armed. This was called "the Vigil 
of Arms." 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



329 



There were crested knight, and gorgeous dame, 

Guttering athwart the gloom. 
And he followed, till his bold step came 

To his warrior-father's tomb. 

But there the still and shadowy might 

Of the monumental stone, 
And the holy sleep of the soft lamp's light, 

That over its quiet shone. 
And the image of that sire, who died 

In his noonday of renown — 
These had a power unto which the pride 

Of fiery life bowed down. 

And a spirit from his early years 

Came back o'er his thoughts to move, 
Till his eye was filled with memory's tears, 

And his heart with childhood's love! 
And he looked, with a change in his softening 
glance. 

To the armour o'er the grave, — 
For there they hung, the shield and lance, 

And the gauntlet of the brave. 

And the sword of many a field was there. 

With its cross for the hour of need. 
When the knight's bold war-cry hath sunk in 
prayer. 

And the spear is a broken reed ! 
— Hush! did a breeze through the armour sigh? 

Did the folds of the banner shake? 
Not so!— from the tomb's dark mystery 

There seemed a voice to break ! 

He had heard that voice bid clarions blow, 

He had caught its last blessing's breath, — 
'Twas the same — but its awful sweetness now 

Had an under tone of death ! 
And it said,—" The sword hath conquered kings, 

And the spear through realms hath passed ; 
But the cross, alone, of all these things, 

Might aid me at the last." 



THE HEART OF BRUCE IN MELROSE 
ABBEY. 

Heart ! that didst press forward still,* 
Where the trumpet's note rang shrill, 
Where the knightly swords were crossing. 
And the plumes like sea-foam tossing, 
Leader of the charging spear. 
Fiery heart ! — and liest thou here 7 
May this narrow spot inurn 
Auirht that so could beat and burn 1 



• " Now pass thou forward, as thou wert wont, and Douglas 
will follow thee or die !" With these words Douglas threw 
from him the heart of Bruce, into mid-battle against the Moors 
of Spain. 



Heart ! that lovedst the clarion's blast, 
Silent is thy place at last ; 
Silent, — save when early bird 
Sings where once the mass was heard ; 
Silent — save when breeze's moan 
Comes through flowers or fretted stone ; 
And the. wild-rose waves around thee. 
And the long dark grass hath bound thee,- 
— Sleep'st thou, as the swain might sleep, 
In this nameless valley deep ? 

No ! brave heart ! — though cold and lone 
Kingly power is yet thine own ! 
Feel I not thy spirit brood 
O'er the whispering solitude 1 
Lo ! at one high thought of thee, 
Fast they rise, the bold, the free, 
Sweeping past thy lowly bed. 
With a mute, yet stately tread. 
Shedding their pale armour's light 
Forth upon the breathless night, 
Bending every warlike plume 
In the prayer o'er saintly tomb. 

Is the noble Douglas nigh. 
Armed to follow thee, or die 1 
Now, true heart, as thou wert wont, 
Pass thou to the peril's front ! 
Where the banner-spear is gleaming. 
And the battle's red wine streaming. 
Till the Paynim quail before thee. 
Till the cross wave proudly o'er thee ; — 
— Dreams ! the falling of a leaf 
Wins me from their splendours brief; 
Dreams, yet bright ones ! scorn them not, 
Thou that seek'st the holy spot ; 
Nor, amidst its lone domain, 
Call the faith in relics vain ! 



NATURE'S FAREWELL. 



The beautiful is vanished, and returns not. 

Coleridge's Wallenstein, 



A YOUTH rode forth from his childhood's home, 
Through the crowded paths of the world to roam, 
And the green leaves whispered, as he passed, 
" Wherefore, thou dreamer, away so fast? 

" Knew'st thou with what thou art parting here, 
Long wouldst thou linger in doubt and fear ; 
Thy heart's light laughter, thy sunny hours. 
Thou hast left in our shades with the spring's wild 
flowers. 

=' Under the arch by our mingling made, 

Thou and thy brother have gaily played ; 

Yc may meet again where ye roved of yore, 

But as ye hate met there— oh ! never more !" ; 



330 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



On rode the youth — and the boughs among, 
Thus the free birds o'er his pathway sung : 
" Wherefore so fast unto Ufe away"? 
Thou art leaving for ever thy joy in our lay ! 

" Thou mayst come to the summer woods again, 
And thy heart have no echo to greet their strain ; 
Afar from the foUage its love will dwelf — 
A change must pass o'er thee — farewell, farewell !" 

On rode the youth : — and the founts and streams 
Thus mingled a voice with his joyous dreams : 
— " We have been thy playmates through many a 

day, 
Wherefore thus leave us 1 — oh ! yet delay ! 

" Listen but once to the sound of our mirth ! 
For thee 't is a melody passing from earth. 
Never again wilt thou find in its flow, 
The peace it could once on thy heart bestow. 

" Thou wilt visit the scenes of thy childhood's glee, 
With the breath of the world on thy spirit free ; 
Passion and sorrow its depth will have stirred, 
And the singing of waters be vainly heard. 

" Thou wilt bear in our gladsome laugh no part — 
What should it do for a burning heart 1 
Thou wilt bring to the banks of our freshest rill, 
Thirst which no fountain on earth may still. 

" Farewell ! — when thou comest again to thine own , 
Thou wilt miss from our music its loveliest tone ; 
Mournfully true is the tale we tell — 
Yet on, fiery dreamer ! farewell, farewell !" 

And a something of gloom on his spirit weighed, 
As he caught the last sounds of his native shade ; 
But he knew not, till many a bright spell broke. 
How deep were the oracles Nature spoke ! 



THE BEINGS OF THE MIND. 



The beings of the mind are not of clay ; 

Essentially immortal, they create 

And multiply in us a brighter ray, 

And more beloved existence ; that which Fate 

Prohibits to dull life, in this our state 

Of mortal bondage. 

Byron. 

Come to me with your triumphs and your woes. 
Ye forms, to life by glorious poets brought ! 

I sit alone with flowers and vernal boughs. 
In the deep shadow of a voiceless thought ; 

'Midst the glad music of the spring alone. 

And sorrowful for visions that are gone ! 

Come to me ! make your thrilling whispers heard, 
Ye, by those masters of the soul endowed 



With life, and love, and many a burning word, 
That bursts from grief, like lightning from a 
cloud. 
And smites the heart, till all its chords reply, 
As leaves make answer when the wind sweeps by. 

Come to me ! visit my dim haunt ! — the sound 
Of hidden springs is in the grass beneath ; 

The stock-dove's note above ; and all around, 
The poesy that with the violet's breath 

Floats through the air, in rich and sudden streams, 

MingHng, like music, with the soul's deep dreams. 

Friends, friends ! — for such to my lone heart ye 
are — 

Unchanging ones ! from whose immortal eyes 
The glory melts not as a waning star. 

And the sweet kindness never, never dies ; 
Bright children of the bard ! o'er this green dell 
Pass once again, and light it with your spell ! 

Imogen ! fair Fidele ! meekly blending 

In patient grief, " a smiling with a sigh ;"* 

And thou, Cordelia! faithful daughter, tending 
That sire, an outcast to the bitter sky ; 

Thou of the soft low voice! — thou art not gone! 

Still breathes for me its faint and flute-like tone. 

And come to me ! — sing me thy willow-strain, 
Sweet Desdemona ! wdth the sad surprise 

In thy beseeching glance, where still, though vain, 
Undimmed, unquenchable affection lies; 

Come, bowing thy young head to wrong and scorn, 

As a frail hyacinth, by showers o'erborne. 

And thou, too, fair Ophelia ! flowers are here, 
That well might win thy footsteps to the spot — 

Pale cowslips, meet for maiden's early bier. 
And pansies for sad thoughts,t — but needed not ! 

Come with thy wreaths, and all the love and light 

In that wild eye still tremulously bright. 

And Juliet, vision of the south ! enshrining 
All gifts that unto its rich heaven belong 

The glow, the sweetness, in its rose combining, 
The soul its nightingales pour forth in song ! 

Thou, making death deep joy! — but couldst thou 
diel 

No! — thy young love hath immortality! 

From earth's bright faces fades the light of morn, 
From earth's glad voices drops the joyous tone ; 

But ye, the children of the soul, were born 
Deathless, and for undying love alone ; 

And, oh ! ye beautiful ! 't is well, how well, 

In the soul's world, with you, where change is not, 
to dwell ! 



* Nobly he yokes 
A smiling with a sigh. Cymheline. 

t Here 's pansies for you — that 's for thoughts. — Hamlet 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



331 



THE LYRE'S LAMENT. 



K large lyre hung in an opening of tiie rock, and gave fortli 
its melanclioly music to tlie wind — but no human being was 
to be seen. — Salathiel. 



A DEEP-TONED Lyre hung murmuring 

To the wild wind of the sea : 
" O melancholy wind," it sighed, 

" What would thy breath with mel 

" Thou canst not wake the spirit 

That in me slumbering Ues, 
Thou strikest not forth th' electric fire 

Of buried melodies. 

" Wind of the dark sea-waters! 

Thou dost but sweep my strings 
Into wild gusts of mournfulness, 

With the rushing of thy wings. 

" But the spell— the gift — the lightning — 

Within my frame concealed. 
Must I moulder on the rock away, 

With their triumphs unrevealedl 

" I have power, high power, for freedom 

To wake the burning soul ! 
I have sounds that through the ancient hills 

Like a torrent's voice might roll 

" I have pealing notes of victory 

That might welcome kings from war ; 

I have rich deep tones to send the wail 
For a hero's death afar. 

" I have chords to lift the paean 

From the temple to the sky, 
Full as the forest-unisons 

When sweeping winds are high 

" And Love — for Love's lone sorrow 

I have accents that might swell 
Through the summer air with the rose's breath, 

Or the violet's faint farewell : 

" Soft — spiritual — mournful — 

Sighs in each note enshrined — 
But who shall call that sweetness forth 1 

Thou canst not, ocean-wind ! 

" I pass without my glory, 

Forgotten I decay — 
Where is the touch to give me life 1 

— Wild fitful wind, away !" 

So sighed the broken music 

That in gladness had no part 
How like art thou, neglected Lyre, 

To many a human heart ! 



TASSO'S CORONATION.* 

A crown of victory ! a triumphal song ! 
Oh ! call some friend, upon whose pitying heart 
The weary one may calmly sink to rest : 
Let some kind voice, beside his lowly couch, 
Pour the last prayer for mortal agony ! 

A trumpet's note is in the sky, in the glorious 

Roman sky. 
Whose dome hath rung, so many an age, to the 

voice of victory ; 
There is crowding to the capitol, the imperial 

streets along, 
For again a conqueror must be crowned, — a kingly 

child of song : 

Yet his chariot lingers, 
Yet around his home 
Broods a shadow silently, 
'Midst the joy of Rome. 

A thousand thousand laurel boughs are waving 

wide and far. 
To shed out their triumphal gleams around his 

rolUngcar; 
A thousand haunts of olden gods have given their 

wealth of flowers. 
To scatter o'er his path of fame bright hues in 

gemlike showers. 

Peace! within his chamber 

Low the mighty lies; 

With a cloud of dreams on his noble brow, 

And a wandering in his eyes. 

Sing, sing for him, the lord of song, for him, whose 
rushing strain 

In mastery o'er the spirit sweeps, like a strong 
wind o'er the main ! 

Whose voice lives deep in burning hearts, for ever 
there to dwell. 

As full-toned oracles are shrined in a temple's ho- 
liest cell. 

Yes ! for him, the victor. 
Sing, — but low, sing low ! 
A soft sad miserere chant 
For a soul about to go! 

The sun, the sun of Italy is pouring o'er his way, 

Where the old three hundred triumphs moved, a 
flood of golden day ; 

Streaming through every haughty arch of the Cae- 
sars' past renown — 

Bring forth, in that exulting light, the conqueror 
for his crown ! 



■ Tasso died at Rome on the day before that appointed for 
his Coronation in the Capitol. 



333 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



Shut the proud bright sunshine 
From the fading sight! 
There needs no ray by the bed of death, 
Save the holy taper's light. 

The wreath is twined, — the way is strewn — the 

lordly train are met — 
The streets are hung with coronals — why stays 

the minstrel yet 1 
Shout ! as an army shouts in joy around a royal 

chief — 
Bring forth the bard of chivalry, the bard of love 

and grief! 

Silence ! forth we bring him, 

In his last array ; 

From love and grief the freed, the flown — 

Way for the bier — make way ! 



THE BETTER LAND. 

" I hear thee speak of the better land. 
Thou callest its children a happy band ; 
Mother ! oh where is that radiant shore 1 
Shall we not seek it, and weep no more 1 
Is it where the flower of the orange blows, 
And the flre-flies glance through the myrtle 
boughs'?" 

— " Not there, not there, my child'" 

" Is it where the feathery palm-trees rise, 
And the date grows ripe under sunny skies'? 
Or 'midst the green islands of glittering seas. 
Where fragrant forests perfume the breeze. 
And strange, bright birds, on their starry wings, 
Bear the rich hues of all glorious things'?" 

— " Not there, not there, my child!" 

" Is it far away, in some region old; 
Where the rivers wander o'er sands of gold '? — 
Where the burning rays of the ruby shine, 
And the diamond lights up the secret mine, 
And the pearl gleams forth from the coral strand '? — 
Is it there, sweet mother, that better landl" 

— " Not there, not there, my child!" 

" Eye hath not seen it, my gentle boy ! 
Ear hath not heard its deep songs of joy; 
Dreams can not picture a world so fair — 
Sorrow and death may not enter there ; 
Time doth not breathe on its fadeless bloom. 
For beyond the clouds, and beyond the tomb, 
— It is there, it is there, my child !" 



THE WOUNDED EAGLE. 

Eagle 1 this is not thy sphere! 
Warrior bird! what seekcst thou here"? 
Wherefore by the fountain's brink 
Doth thy royal pinion sink ■? 



Wherefore on the violet's bed 
Layest thou thus thy drooping head"? 
Thou, that hold'st the blast in scorn, 
Thou, that wear'st the wings of morn! 

Eagle! wilt thou not arise'? 
Look upon thine own bright skies ! 
Lift thy glance ! the fiery sun 
There his pride of place hath won ! 
And the mountain lark is there. 
And sweet sound hath filled the air ; 
Hast thou left that realm on highl 
Oh ! it can be but to die ! 

Eagle, Eagle ! thou hast bowed 
From thine empire o'er the cloud ! 
Thou that hadst ethereal birth, 
Thou hast stooped too near the earth. 
And the hunter's shaft hath found thee, 
And the toils of death have bound thee ! 
— Wherefore didst thouJeave thy place, 
Creature of a kingly race 1 

Wert thou weary of thy throne'? 
Was the sky's dominion lone? 
Chill and lone it well might be. 
Yet that mighty wing was free ! 
Now the chain is o'er it cast, 
From thy heart the blood flows fast, 
— Wo for gifted souls and high ! 
Is not such their destiny'? 



SADNESS AND MIRTH. 



Nay these, wild fits of uncurbed laughter 
Athwart the gloomy tenor of yourmind, 
As it has lowered of late, so keenly cast, 
Unsuited seem, and strange. 

Oh ! nothing strange ! 
Didst thou ne'er see the swallow's veering breast, 
Winging the air beneath some murky cloud, 
In the sunned glimpses of a troubled day, 
Shiver in silvery brightness? 
Or boatman's oar, as vivid lightning flash 
In the faint gleam, that like a spirit's path, 
Tracks the still waters of some sullen lalre? 

O, gentle friend ! 
Chide not her mirth, who yesterday was sad, 
And may be so to-morrow ! — Joanna Baillie. 

Ye met at the stately feasts of old. 

Where the bright wine foamed over sculptured 

gold, 
Sadness and Mirth! — ye were mingled there 
With the sound of the lyre in the scented air ; 
As the cloud and the lightning are blent on high. 
Ye mixed in the gorgeous revelry. 

For there hung o'er the banquets of yore a gloon), 
A thought and a shadow of the tomb; 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



333 



It gave to the flute-notes an under-tone, 
To the rose a colouring not its own, 
To the breath of the myrtle a mournful power- 
Sadness and Mirth! ye had each your dower! 

Ye met when the triumph swept proudly by, 
With the Roman eagles through the sky! 
I know that e'en then, in his hour of pride. 
The soul of the mighty within him died ; 
That a void in his bosom lay darkly still, 
Which the music of victory might never fill ! 

Thou wert there, oh ! Mirth ! swelling on the shout. 
Till the temples, like echo-caves, rang out ; 
Thine were the garlands, the songs, the wine, 
All the rich voices in air were thine, 
The incense, the sunshine — but. Sadness! thy 

part, 
Deepest of all, was the victor's heart ! 

Ye meet at the bridal with flower and tear ; 

Strangely and wildly ye meet by the bier ! 

As the gleam from a sea-bird's white wing shed. 

Crosses the storm in its path of dread ; 

As a dirge meets the breeze of a summer sky — 

Sadness and Mirth ! so ye come and fly! 

Ye meet in the poet's haunted breast, 
Darkness and rainbow, alike its guest! 
When the breath of the violet is out in spring. 
When the woods with the wakening of music ring, 
O'er his dreamy spirit 5'our currents pass, 
Like shadow and sunlight o'er mountain grass. 

When will your parting be, Sadness and Mirth 1 
Bright stream and dark one ! — oh ! never on earth ; 
Never while triumphs and tombs are so near. 
While Death and Love walk the same dim sphere, 
While flowers unfold where the storm may sweep, 
While the heart of man is a soundless deep ! 

But there smiles a land, oh ! ye troubled pair! 
Where ye have no part in the summer air. 
Far from the breathings of changeful skies. 
Over the seas and the graves it lies ; 
Where the day of the lightning and cloud is done. 
And joy reigns alone, as the lonely sun ! 



THE NIGHTINGALE'S DEATH SONG. 



Willst du nach den Nachtigallen fragen, 

Die mit seelenvollen melodie 
Dich entziickten in des I^enzes Tagen'? 

— Nur so lang sie liebten, waren sie. 

Schiller. 

Mournfully, sing mournfully, 

And die away, my heart ! 
The rose, the glorious rose is gone, 

And I, too, will depart. 
.31 



The skies have lost their splendour, 
The waters changed their tone. 

And wherefore, in the faded world, 
Should music linger on 1 

Where is the golden sunshine, 
And where the flower-cup's glow 1 

And where the joy of the dancing leaves, 
And the fountain's laughing flow? 

A voice, in every whisper 

Of the wave, the bough, the air. 

Comes asking for the beautiful. 

And moaning, "Where, oh! where T' 

Tell of the brightness parted, 
Thou bee, thou lamb at play ! 

Thou lark, in thy victorious mirth ! 
— Are ye, too, passed away 1 

Mournfully, sing mournfully! 

The royal rose is gone. 
Melt from the woods, my spirit, melt 

In one deep farewell tone ! 

Not so ! — swell forth triumphantly. 
The full, rich, fervent strain ! 

Hence with young love and life I go, 
In the summer's joyous train. 

With sunshine, with sweet odour. 

With every precious thing. 
Upon the last warm southern breeze 

My soul its flight shall wing. 

Alone I shall not linger, 

When the days of hope are past. 
To watch the fall of leaf by leaf, 

To wait the rushing blast. 

Triumphantly, triumphantly ! 

Sing to the woods, I go! 
For nie, perchance, in other lands. 

The glorious rose may blow. 

The sky's transparent azure. 
And the greensward's violet breath. 

And the dance of light leaves in the wind, 
May there know nought of death. 

No more, no more sing mournfully, 
Swell high, then break, my heart 

With love, the spirit of the woods, 
With summer I depart! 



THE DIVER. 

They learn in suffering what they teach in song. 

Shelley 

Thou hast been where the rocks of coral grow, 
Thou hast fought with eddying waves ; — 

Thy cheek is pale, and thy heart beats low. 
Thou searcher of ocean's caves ! 



334 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



Thou hast looked on the gleaming wealth of old, 
And wrecks where the brave have striven ; 

The deep is a strong and a fearful hold, 
But thou its bar hast riven ! 

A wild and weary life is thine ; 

A wasting task and lone, 
Though treasure-grots for thee may shine, 

To all besides unknown ! 

A weary life ! but a swift decay 

Soon, soon shall set thee free; 
Thou 'rt passing fast from thy toils away, 

Thou wrestler with the sea ! 

In thy dim eye, on thy hollow cheek. 

Well are the death-signs read — 
Go3 for the pearl in its cavern seek, 

Ere hope and power be fled ! 

And bright in beauty's coronal 

That glistening gem shall be ; 
A star to all the festive hall — 

But who will think on thee 7 

None ! — as it gleams from the queen-like head, 

Not one 'midst throngs will say, 
"A life hath been hke a rain-drop shed. 

For that pale quivering ray." 

Wo for the wealth thus dearly bought! 

— And are not those Uke thee, 
Who win for earth the gems of thought 1 

O wrestler with the sea! 

Down to the gulfs of the soul they go, 

Where the passion-fountains burn, 
Gathering the jewels far below 

From many a buried urn : 

Wringing from lava-veins the fire. 

That o'er bright words is poured; 
Learning deep sounds, to make the lyre 

A spirit in each chord. 

But, oh! the price of bitter tears. 

Paid for the lonely power 
That throws at last, o'er desert years, 

A darkly -glorious dower ! 

Like flower-seeds, by the wild wind spread. 

So radiant thoughts are strewed ; 
— The soul whence those high gifts are shed. 

May faint in sohtude ! 

And who will think, when the strain is sung. 

Till a thousand hearts are stirred. 
What life-drops, from the minstrel wrung, 

Have gushed with every word 1 

None, none ! — his treasures live like thine, 

He strives and dies like thee; 
—Thou, that hast been to the pearl's dark shrine, 

O wrestler with the sea ! 



THE REaUIEM OF GENIUS. 



Les poetes dont I'imagination tient a la puissance d'aitner 
et de souffrir, ne sont ils pas les bannis d'une autre region 1 
Madame de Stael. De L'Allemagne. 



No tears for thee ! — though light be from us gone 
With thy soul's radiance, bright, yet restless one ! 

No tears for thee I 
They that have loved an exile, must not mourn 
To see him parting for his native bourne 

O'er the dark sea. 

All the high music of thy spirit here. 
Breathed but the language of another sphere, 

Unechoed round ; 
And strange, though sweet, as 'midst our weeping 

skies 
Some half-remembered strain of paradise 
Might sadly sound. 

Hast thou been answered? thou, that from the 

night 
And from the voices of the tempest's might, 

And from the past, 
Wert seeking still some oracle's reply, 
To pour the secrets of man's destiny 

Forth on the blast! 

Hast thou been answered 1 — thou, that through 

the gloom. 
And shadow, and stern silence of the tomb, 

A cry didst send. 
So passionate and deepl to pierce, to move, 
To win back token of unburied love 

From buried friend ! 

And hast thou found where living waters burst 1 
Thou, that didst pine amidst us, in the thirst 

Of fever-dreams ! 
Are the true fountains thine for evermore? 
Oh ! lured so long by shining mists, that wore 

The Ught of streams ! 

Speak ! is it well with thee ? — We call, as thou, 
With thy lit eye, deep voice, and kindled brow, 

Wert wont to call 
On the departed ! Art thou blest and free? 
Alas ! the lips earth covers, even to thee 

Were silent all ! 

Yet shall our hope rise fanned by quenchless faith, 
As a flame, fostered by some warm wind's breath, 

In light upsprings: 
Freed soul of song! yes, thou hast found the 

sought ; 
Borne to thy home of beauty and of thought, 

On morning's wings. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



335 



And we will dream it is thy joy we hear, 
When life's young music, ringing far and clear, 

O'erflows the sky: 
— No tears for thee! the lingering gloom is ours— 
Thou art for converse with all glorious powers, 

Never to die ! 



TRIUMPHANT MUSIC. 

Tacete, tacete, O suoni Irionfanti ! 

Risvegliate in vano '1 cor che non puo liberarsi. 

Wherefore and whither bear'st thou up my spi- 
rit, 

On eagle wings, through every plume that thrill 1 
It hath no crown of victory to inherit — 

Be still, triumphant harmony! be still! 

Thine are no sounds for earth, thus proudly 
swelling 

Into rich floods of joy : — it is but pain 
To mount so high, yet find on high no dwelling, 

To sink so fast, so heavily again ! 

No sounds for earth 1 — Yes, to young chieftain 
dying 
On his own battle-field, at set of sun. 
With his freed coimtry's banner o'er him flying, 
Well mightst thou speak of fame's high guerdon 
won. 

No sounds for earth 1 — Yes, for the martyr leading 

Unto victorious death serenely on, 
For patriot by his rescued altars bleeding, 

Thou hast a voice in each majestic tone. 

But speak not thus to one whose heart is beating 

Against life's narrow bound, in conflict vain! 
For power, for joy, high hope, and rapturous 

greeting, 
Thou wak'st lone thirst — be hushed, exulting 

strain ! 

Be hushed, or breathe of grief ! — of exile yearnings 
Under the willows of the stranger-shore ; 

Breathe of the soul's untold and restless burnings. 
For looks, tones, footsteps, that return no more. 

Breathe of deep love — a lonely vigil keeping 
Through the night-hours, o'er wasted wealth to 
pine; 
Rich thoughts and sad, like faded rose-leaves heap- 
ing, 
In the shut heart, at once a tomb and shrine. 

Or pass as if thy spirit-notes came sighing 
From worlds beneath some blue Elysian sky ; 

Breathe of repose, the pure, the bright, th' undy- 
ing — 
Of joy no more — bewildering harmony ! 



THE SEA-BIRD FLYING INLAND.* 



Thy path is not as mine : — where thou art blest, 
My spirit would but wither : mine own grief 
Is in mine eyes a richer, holier thing, 
Than all thy happiness. 



Hath the summer's breath, on the south-wind 

borne, 
Met the dark seas in their sweeping scorn 1 
Hath it lured thee. Bird ! from then sounding caves, 
To the river-shores, where the osier waves 1 

Or art thou come on the hills to dwell. 
Where the sweet-voiced echoes have many a celll 
Where the moss bears print of the wild-deer's tread, 
And the heath Uke a royal robe is spread "? 

Thou hast done well, O thou bright sea-bird ! 
There is joy where the song of the lark is heard, 
Withthe dancing of waters through copse and dell, 
And the bee's low tune in the fox-glove's bell. 

Thou hast done well : — Oh ! the seas are lone, 
And the voice they send up hath a mournful tone; 
A mingling of dirges and wild farewells. 
Fitfully breathed through its anthem-swells. 

— The proud bird rose as the words were said — 
The rush of his pinion swept o'er my head, 
And the glance of his eye, in its bright disdain, 
Spoke him a child of the haughty main. 

He hath flown from the woods to the ocean's breast, 
To his throne of pride on the billow's crest ! 
— Oh ! who shall say, to a spirit free, 
" There lies the pathway of bliss for theel" 



SECOND SIGHT. 



Ne'er erred the prophet heart that grief inspired, 
Though joy's illusions mock their votarist. — Malurin. 



A MOURNFUL gift; is mine, O friends I 

A mournful gift is mine ! 
A murmur of the soul which blends 

With the flow of song and wine. 

An eye that through the triumph's hour 

Beholds the coming wo. 
And dwells upon the faded flower 

'Midst the rich summer's glo#. 

Ye smile to view fair races bloom 
Where the father's board is spread ; 

I see the stillness and the gloom 
Of a home whence all are fled. 



Published fii-st in the Edinburgh Literary Journal, 



336 



MRS. HEMANS WORKS. 



I see the withered garlands lie 

Forsaken on the earth, 
While the lamps yet burn, and the dancers fly 

Through the ringing hall of mirth. 

I see the blood-red future stain 

On the warrior's gorgeous crest ; 
And the bier amidst the bridal train 

When they come with roses drest. 

I hear the still small moan of Time, 

Through the ivy branches made, 
Where the palace, in its glory's prime, 

With the sunshine stands arrayed. 

The thunder of the seas I hear, 

The shriek along the wave. 
When the bark sweeps forth, and song and cheer 

Salute the parting brave. 

With every breeze a spirit sends 

To me some warning sign : — 
A mournful gift is mine, O friends ! 

A mournful gift is mine ! 

Oh ! prophet heart ! thy grief, thy power, 

To all deep souls belong ; 
The shadow in the sunny hour, 

The wail in the mirthful song. 

Their sight is all too sadly clear — 

For them a vail is riven : 
Their piercing thoughts repose not here, 

Their home is but m Heaven. 



THE SLEEPER. 



For sleep is awful. — Byron. 



Oh ! lightly, lightly tread ! 

A holy thing is sleep, 
On the worn spirit shed, 

And eyes that wake to weep. 

A holy thing from Heaven, 
A gracious dewy cloud, 

A covering mantle given 
The weary to enshroud. 

Oh ! lightly, lightly tread ! 

Revere |^e pale still brow, 
The meekly-drooping head. 

The long hair's willowy flow. 

Ye know not what ye do, 

That call the slumberer back. 

From the world unseen by you 
Unto life's dim faded track. 



Her soul is far away. 
In her childhood's land, perchance, 

Where her young sisters play, 
Where shines her mother's glance. 

Some old sweet native sound 

Her spirit haply weaves ; 
A harmony profound 

Of woods with all their leaves ; 

A murmur of the sea, 

A laughing tone of streams : — 
Long may her sojourn be 

In the music-land of dreams ! 

Each voice of love is there, 
Each gleam of beauty fled, 

Each lost one still more fair— 
Oh ! lightly, lightly tread ! 



THE MIRROR IN THE DESERTED 
HALL. 

O, DIM, forsaken mirror ! 
Hovvr many a stately throng 
Hath o'er thee gleamed, in vanished hours 
Of the wine-cup and the song ! 

The song hath left no echo ; 
The bright wine hath been quafl!ed ; 
And hushed is every silvery voice 
That lightly here hath laughed. 

Oh ! mirror, lonely mirror. 
Thou of the silent hall I 
Thou hast been flushed with beauty's bloom — 
Is this, too, vanished all 1 

It is, with the scattered garlands 
Of triumphs long ago ; 
With the melodies of buried lyres ; 
With the faded rainbow's glow. 

And for all the gorgeous pageants, 
For the glance of gem and plume, 
For lamp, and harp, and rosy wreath, 
And vase of rich perfume. 

Now, dim, forsaken mirror. 
Thou givest but faintly back 
The quiet stars, and the sailing moon, 
On her solitary track. 

And thus was man's proud spirit 
Thou tellest me 't will be. 
When the forms and hues of this world fade 
From his memory, as from thee : 

And his heart's long-troubled waters 
At last in stillness lie. 
Reflecting but the images 

Of the solemn world on high. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



337 



HYMN OF THE MOUNTAIN CHRIS- 
TIAN. 



"Thanks be to God for the mountains." 

HowiWs Book of t/ie Seasons. 



For the strength of the hills we bless thee, 

Our God, our fathers' God! 
Thou hast made thy children mighty, 

By the touch of the mountain sod. 
Thou hast fixed our ark of refuge 

Where the spoiler's foot ne'er trod ; 
For the strength of the hills we bless thee, 

Our God, our fathers' God ! 

We are watchers of a beacon 

Whose lights must never die ; 
We are guardians of an altar 

Midst the silence of the sky; 
The rocks yield founts of courage 

Struck forth as by thy rod — 
For the strength of the hills we bless thee, 

O God, our fathers' God ! 

For the dark, resounding heavens, 

Where thy still small voice is heard, 
For the strong pines of the forests. 

That by thy breath arc stirred ; 
For the storms on whose free pinions 

Thy spirit walks abroad — 
For the strength of the hills wc bless thee, 

Our God, our fathers' God! 

The royal eagle darteth 

On his quarry from the heights, 
And the stag that knows no master. 

Seeks there his wild delights ; 
But we for thy communion 

Have sought the mountain sod — 
For the strength of the hills wc bless thee. 

Our God, our fathers' God! 

The banner of the chieftain 

Far, far below us waves ; 
The war-horse of the spearman 

Can not reach our lofty caves; 
Thy dark clouds wrap the threshold 

Of freedom's last abode ; 
For the strength of the hills we bless thee 

Our God, our fathers' God! 

For the shadow of thy presence 

Round our camp of rock outspread ; 
For the stern defiles of battle, 

Bearing record of our dead; 
For the snows, and for the torrents, 

For the free heart's burial sod, 
For the strength of tlie hills we bless thco, 

Our God, our fathers' God ! 



CHURCH MUSIC. 



-" All the train 



Sang Ilallulujah, as the sound of seas." 



Again! oh, send those anthem notes again! 
Through the arched roof in triumph to the sky! 
Bid the old tombs give echoes to the strain, 
The banners tremble, as with victory! 

Sing them once more ! — they waft, my soul away, 
High where no shadow of the past is thrown; 
No earthly passion through th' exulting lay, 
Breathes mournfully one haunting under-tone. 

All is of Heaven! — yet wherefore to mine eye. 
Gush the quick tears unbidden from their source, 
E'en while the waves of that strong harmony. 
Sweep with my spirit on their sounding course 1 

Wherefore must rapture its full tide reveal. 
Thus by the signs betokening sorrow's powerl 
— Oh! is it not, that humbly we may feel 
Our nature's limits in its proudest hour ! 



TO A PICTURE OF THE MADONNA. 



AveMaiia! May our spirits dare 

Look up to thine, and to thy son's above 1 



Byron. 



Fair vision ! thou 'rt from sunny skies. 
Born where the rose hath richest dyes; 
To thee a southern heart hath given 
That glow of Love, that calm of Heaven, 
And round thee cast th' ideal gleam. 
The light that is but of a dream. 

Par hence, where wandering music fills 
The haunted air of Roman hills. 
Or where Venetian waves of yore 
Heard melodies they hear no more. 
Some proud old minster's gorgeous aisle 
Hath known the sweetness of thy smilt. 

Or, haply, from a lone, dim shrine, 
'Mid forests of the Apennine, 
Whose breezy sounds of cave and dell 
Pass like a floating anthem-swell, 
Thy soft eyes o'er the pilgrim's way 
Shed blessings with their gentle ray. 

; Or gleaming through a chestnut wood, 
I Perchance thine island-chai)el stood, 
I Where from the blue Sicilian sea. 
The sailor's hymn hath come to thee. 
And blessed thy jiovver to guide, to save, 
' Madonna! wiitchc-r of the wave! 



338 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



Oh ! might a voice, a whisper low, 
Forth ftom those lips of beauty flow ! 
Couldst thou but speak of all the tears, 
The conflicts and the pangs of years, 
"Which, at thy secret shrine revealed, 
Have gushed from human hearts unsealed ! 

Surely to thee hath woman come, 

As a tired wanderer back to home ! 

Unveiling many a timid guest, 

And treasured sorrow of her breast, 

A buried love — a wasting care — 

Oh ! did those griefs win peace from prayer 1 

And did the poet's fervid soul 

To thee lay bare its inmost scroll? 

Those thoughts, which poured their quenchless 

fire 
And passion o'er th' Italian lyre. 
Did they to still submission die, 
Beneath thy calm, religious eye 7 

And hath the crested helmet bowed 
Before thee, 'midst the incense-cloud 1 
Hath the crowned leader's bosom lone. 
To thee its haughty griefs made known 1 
Did thy glance break their frozen sleep. 
And win the unconquered one to weepi 

Hushed is the anthem — closed the vow — 
Thy votive garland withered now ; 
Yet holy still to me thou art, 
Thou that hast soothed so many a heart ! 
And still must blessed influence flow 
From the meek glory of thy brow. 

Still speak to suffering woman's love, 
Of rest for gentle hearts above; 
Of Hope, that hath its treasure there. 
Of Home, that knows no changeful air ! 
Bright form, lit up with thoughts divine, 
Ave ! such power be ever thine ! 



WE RETURN NO MORE. 

" We return no more !" 
Burden of the Highland Song of Emigration. 

" We return — we return — we return no more !" 
— So comes the song to the mountain shore, 
From those that are leaving their Highland Home, 
For a world far over the blue sea's foam ; 
" We return no more !" — and through cave and 

dell, 
Mournfully wanders that wild farewell. 

" We return — we return — we return no more!" 
— So breathe sad voices our spirits o'er. 



Murmuring up from the depth of the heart, 
When lovely things vnth their light depart, 
And the inborn sound hath a prophet's tone, 
And we feel that a joy is forever gone. 

" We return — we return — we return no more !" 
— Is it heard when the days of flowers are o'er, 
When the passionate soul of the night-bird's lay 
Hath died from the summer woods away"? 
When the crimson from sun-set's robe hath passed, 
Or the leaves are swept on the rushing blast? 

No — it is not the rose that returns no more, 
A soft spring's breath will its bloom restore. 
And it is not the song that o'erflows the bowers 
With a stream of love through the starry hours. 
And it is not the glory of sunset's hues. 
Nor the frail flushed leaves that the wild wind 
strews. 

" We return — we return— we return no more!' 
— Doth the bird sing thus from the brighter shore, 
Those wings that follow the Southern breeze. 
Float they not homeward o'er vernal seas? 
Yes from the lands of the vine and palm 
They come with the sunshine when waves grow 
calm. 

" But We — We return — we return no more!" 

The heart's young dreams when their bloom is o'er, 

The love it hath poured so freely forth, 

The boundless trust in ideal worth. 

The faith in aflfection — deep, fond — yet vain, 

These are the lost that return not again. 



SONG. 

What woke the buried sound that lay 

In Memnon's harp of yore ? 
What spirit on its viewless way 

Along the Nile's green shore? 
— Oh ! not the night, and not the storm. 

And not the lightning's fire — 
But sunlight's touch — the kind — the warm— 

This woke the mystic lyre ! 

This, this, awoke the lyre ! 

What wins the heart's deep chords to pour 

Their music forth on life. 
Like a sweet voice, prevailing o'er 

The sounds of torrent strife ? 
— Oh ! not the conflict midst the throng, 

Not e'en the triumph's hour ; — 
Love is the gifted and the strong 

To wake that music's power ! 

His breath awakes that power ! 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



339 



THE PARTING OF SUMMER. 

Thou 'rt bearing hence thy roses, 

Glad Summer, fare thee well ! 
Thou 'rt singing thy last melodies 

In every wood and dell. 

But ere the golden sunset 

Of thy latest lingering day, 
Oh ! tell me, o'er this chequered earth, 

How hast thou passed away 1 

Brightly, sweet Summer ! brightly 

Thine hours have floated by. 
To the joyous birds of the woodland boughs. 

The rangers of the sky. 

And brightly in the forests, 

To the wild deer wandering free; 

And brightly,! 'midst the garden flowers, 
Is the happy murmuring bee : 

But how to human bosoms, 

With all their hopes and fears. 
And thoughts that make them eagle-wings, 

To pierce the unborn years '] 

Sweet Summer ! to the captive 

Thou hast flown in burning dreams 

Of the woods, with all their whispering leaves. 
And the blue rejoicing streams ; — 

To the wasted and the weary 

On the bed of sickness bound, 
In swift delirious fantasies, 

That changed with every sound ; — 

To the sailor on the billows. 

In longings, wild and vain. 
For the gushing founts and breezy hills. 

And the homes of earth again I 

And unto me, glad Summer ! 

How hast thou flown to me 7 
My chainless footstep nought hath kept 

From thy haunts of song and glee. 

Thou hast flown in wayward visions. 

In memories of the dead — 
In shadows, from a troubled heart. 

O'er thy sunny pathway shed : 

In brief and sudden strivings. 

To fling a weight aside — 
'Midst these thy melodies have ceased. 

And all thy roses died. 

But, oh ! thou gentle Summer ! 

If I greet thy flowers once more. 
Bring me again the buoyancy 

Wherewith my soul should soar ! 



Give me to hail thy sunshine, 

With song and spirit free ; 
Or in a purer air than this 

May that next meeting be ! 

THE WORLD IN THE OPEN AIR. 

CoMEi, while in freshness and dew it lies, 
To the world that is under the free, blue skies 
Leave ye man's home, and forget his care — 
There breathes no sigh on the dayspring's air. 

Come to the woods, in whose mossy dells 
A light all made for the poet dwells ; 
A light, coloured softly by tender leaves. 
Whence the primrose a mellower glow receives. 

The stock-dove is there in the beechen-tree. 
And the lulling tone of the honey-bee ; 
And the voice of cool waters, 'midst feathery fern, 
Shedding sweet sounds from some hidden urn. 

There is life, there is youth, there is tameless mirth. 
Where the streams, with the lilies they wear, have 

birth ; 
There is peace where the alders are whispering low : 
Come from man's dwellings, with all their wo ! 

Yes ! — we will come — we will leave behind 
The homes and the sorrows of human kind ; 
It is well to rove where the river leads 
Its bright, blue vein along sunny meads: 

It is well through the rich, wild* woods to go. 
And to jiierce the iiaunts of the fawn and doe; 
And to hear the gushing of gentle springs. 
When the heart has been fretted by worldly stings : 

And to watch the colours that flit and pass. 
With insect wings through the wavy grass ; 
And the silvery gleams o'er the ash-trees bark. 
Borne in with a breeze through the foliage dark. 

.Toyous and far shall our wanderings be, 
As the flight of birds o'er the glittering sea ; 
To the woods, to the dingles where violets bloWj 
We will bear no memory of earthly wo. 

But if, by the forest -brook, we meet 
A line like the pathway of former feet ; — 
If, 'midst the hills, in some lonely spot. 
We reach the gray ruins of tower or cot ;— 

If the cell, where a hermit of old hath prayed. 
Lift up its cross through the solemn shade ; — 
Or if some nook, where the wild-flowers wave, 
Bear token sad of a mortal grave, — 

Doubt not but there will our steps be stayed. 
There our quick spirits awhile delayed ; 
There will thought flx our impatient eyes. 
And win back our hearts to their sympathies. 



340 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



For what, though the mountains and skies be fair, 
Steeped in soft hues of the summer-air, — 
'T is the soul of man, by its hopes and dreams, 
That lights up all nature with living gleams. 



Where it hath suffered and nobly striven, 
Where it hath poured forth its vows to Heaven ; 
Where to repose it hath brightly past. 
O'er this green earth there is glory cast. 

And by that soul, amidst groves and rills, 
And flocks that feed on a thousand hills, 
Birds of the forest, and flowers of the sod, 
We, only we, may be linked to God ! 

KINDRED HEARTS. 

Oh ! ask not, hope thou not too much 

Of sympathy below ; 
Few are the hearts whence one same touch 

Bids the sweet fountains flow : 
Few — and by still conflicting powers 

Forbidden here to meet — 
Such ties would make this Ufe of ours 

Too fair for aught so fleet. 

It may be that thy brother's eye 

Sees not as thine, which turns 
In such deep reverence to the sky, 

Where the rich sunset burns : 
It may be that the breath of spring, 

Born amidst violets lone, 
A rapture o'er thy soul can bring — 

A dream, to his unknown. 

The tune that speaks of other times — 

A sorrowful delight ! 
The melody of distant chimes. 

The sound of waves by night ; 
The wind that, with so many a tone. 

Some chord within can thrill, — 
These may have language all thine own, 

To him a mystery still. 

Yet scorn thou not for this, the true 

And steadfast love of years ; 
The kindly, that from childhood grew. 

The faithful to thy tears ! 
If there be one that o'er the dead 

Hath in thy grief borne part. 
And watched through sifjkness by thy bed, — 

Call his a kindred heart ! 

But for those bonds all perfect made, 

Wherein bright spirits blend. 
Like sister flowers of one sweet shade. 

With the same breeze that bend. 
For that full bliss of thought aUied, 

Never to mortals given, — 
Oh ! lay thy lovely dreams aside. 

Or lift them unto heaven. 



THE DIAL OP FLOWERS.* 

'T WAS a lovely thought to mark the hours. 

As they floated in light away. 
By the opening and the folding flowers, 

That laugh to the summer's day. 

Thus had each moment its own rich hue. 

And its graceful cup and bell. 
In whose coloured vase might sleep the dew, 

Like a pearl in an ocean-shell. 

To such sweet signs might the time have flowed 

In a golden current on. 
Ere from the garden, man's first abode, 

The glorious guests were gone. 

So might the days have been brightly told— 
"Those days of song and dream". — 

When shepherds gathered their flocks of old, 
By the blue Arcadian streams. 

So in those isles of delight, that rest 

Far off in a breezeless main. 
Which many a bark, with a weary quest, 

Has sought, but still in vain. 

Yet is not life, in its real flight, 
Marked thus — even thus — on earth, 

By the closing of one hope's delight, 
And another's gentle birth 1 

Oh ! let us live, so that flower by flower, 

Shutting in turn, may leave 
A lingerer still for the sunset hour, 

A charm for the shaded eve. 



OUR DAILY PATHS. 



Nought shall prevail against us, or disturb 
Our cheerfal faith, tliat all which we behold 
Is full of blessings. 

Wordsworth. 



There's beauty all around our paths, if but our 

watchful eyes 
Can trace it 'midst familiar things, and through 

their lowly guise ; 
We may find it where a hedge-row showers its 

blossoms o'er our way. 
Or a cottage window sparkles forth in the last red 

light of day. 



' This dial was, 1 believe, formed by Linnaeus, and marked 
the hours by the opening and closing, at regular intervals, ol 
the flowers arranged in it. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



341 



We may find it where a spring shines clear, be- 
neath an aged tree, 

With the foxglove o'er the water's glass borne 
downwards by the bee ; 

Or where a swift and sunny gleam on the birch- 
en stems is thrown, 

As a soft wind playing parts the leaves, in copses 
green and lone. 

We may find it in the winter boughs, as they cross 

the cold, blue sky. 
While soft on icy pool and stream their penciled 

shadows lie, 
When we look upon their tracery, by the fatryl Silent and mournful sat an Indian chief, 

frost-work bound, 
Whence the flitting redbreast shakes a shower of 

crystals to the ground. 

Yes ! beauty dwells in all our paths — but sorrow 
too is there ; 

How oft some cloud within us dims the bright, still 
summer air ! 

When we carry our sick hearts abroad amidst the 
joyous things. 

That through the leafy places glance on many- 
coloured wings ! 



With shadows from the past we fill the happy 
woodland shades. 

And a mournful memory of the dead is with us in 
the glades ; 

And our dream-like fancies lend the wind an echo's 
plaintive tone 

Of voices, and of melodies, and of silvery laugh- 
ter gone. 

But are we free to do e'en thus — to wander as we 

will- 
Bearing sad visions through the grove, and o'er 

the breezy hill ? 
No ! in our daily paths lie cares, that ofttimes bind 

us fast. 
While from their narrow round we see the golden 

day fleet past. 

They hold us from the woodlark's haunts, and vio- 
let dingles, back, 

And from ail the lovely sounds and gleams in the 
shining river's track ; 

They bar us from our heritage of spring-time, 
hope, and mirth. 

And weigh our burdened spirits down with the 
cumbering dust of earth. 

Yet should this be? — Too much, too soon, despond- 

ingly we yield ! 
A better lesson we are taught by the lilies of the 

field ! 
A sweeter by the birds of heaven — which tell us, 

in their flight. 
Of One that througli the desert air for ever guides 

them right. I 



Shall not this knowledge calm our hearts, and bid 

vain conflicts cease "? 
Ay, when they commune with themselves in holy 

hours of peace ; 
And feel that by the lights and clouds through 

which our pathway lies, 
By the beauty and the grief alike, we are training 

for the skies 1 



THE CROSS IN THE WILDERNESS. 



In the red sunset, by a grassy tomb ; 
His eyes, that might not weep, were dark with grief, 

And his arms folded in majestic gloom, 
And his bow lay unstrung beneath the mound, 
Which sanctified the gorgeous waste around. 



For a pale cross above its greensward rose, 
Telling the cedars and the pines that there 

Man's heart and hope had struggled with his woes. 
And lifted from the dust a voice of prayer. 

Now all was hushed — and eve's last splendour shone 

With a rich sadness on th' attesting stone. 



There came a lonely traveller o'er the wild. 
And he too paused in reverence by that grave, 

Asking the tale of its memorial, piled 

Between the forest and the lake's bright wave; 

Till, as a wind might stir a withered oak. 

On the deep dream of age his accents broke. 

And the gray chieftain, slowly rising, said — 
" I listened for the words, which, years ago, 

Passed o'er these waters : though the voice is fled 
Which made them as a singing fountain's flow, 

Yet, when I sit in their long-faded track. 

Sometimes the forest's murmur gives them back. 

" Ask'st thou of him, whose house is lone beneathl 
I was an eagle in my youthful pride. 

When o'er the seas he came, with summer's breath, 
To dwell amidst us, on tlie lake's green side. 

Many the times of flowers have been since then — 

Many, but bringing nought like him again ! 

" Not with the hunter's bow and spear he came, 
O'er the blue hills to chase the flying roe ; 

Not the dark glory of the woods to tame. 
Laying their cedars like the corn-stalks low ; 

But to spread tidings of all holy things. 

Gladdening our soul's as with the morning's wings. 

" Doth not yon cypress whisper how we met, 
I and my brethren that from earth are gone, 

Under its boughs to hear his voice, which yet 
Seems through their gloom to send a silvery tone 1 

He told of one, the grave's dark bands who broke, 

And our hearts burned within us as he spoke. 



342 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



" He told of far and sunny lands, which he 
Beyond the dust wherein our fathers dwell: 

Bright must they be ! — for there are none that die, 
And none that weep, and none that say 'Farewell!' 

He came to guide us thither ; — but away 

The Happy called him, and he might not stay. 

" We saw him slowly fade, — athirst, perchance, 
For the fresh waters of that lovely clime; 

Yet was there still a sunbeam in his glance, 
And on his gleaming hair no touch of time, — 

Therefore we hoped: — but now the lake looks dim, 

For the green summer comes, — and finds not him ! 

" We gathered round him in the dewy hour 
Qf one still morn, beneath his chosen tree ; 

From his clear voice, at first, the words of power 
Came low, like moanings of a distant sea ; 

But swelled and shook the wilderness ere long, 

As if the spirit of the breeze grew strong. 

" And then once more they trembled on his tongue. 
And his white eyelids fluttered, and his head 

Fell back, and mists upon his forehead hung, — 
Know'st thou not how we pass to join the deadi 

It is enough ! — he sank upon my breast — 

Our friend that loved us, he was gone to rest ! 

" We buried him where he was wont to pray. 
By the calm lake, e'en here, at eventide ; 

We reared this Cross in token where he lay, 
For on the Cross, he said, his Lord had died ! 

Now hath he surely reached, o'er mount and wave. 

That fllowery land whose green turf hides no grave. 

" But I am sad ! — I mourn the clear light taken 
Back from my people, o'er whose place it shone, 

The pathway to the better shore forsaken. 
And the true words forgotten, save by one. 

Who hears them faintly sounding from the past. 

Mingled with death-songs in each fitful blast." 

Then spoke the wanderer forth with kindling eye : — 
" Son of the wilderness ! despair thou not, 

Though the bright hour may seem to thee gone by. 
And the cloud settled o'er thy nation's lot ! 

Heaven darkly works; yet where the seed hath been 

There shall the fruitage, glowing yet, be seen. 

" Hope on, hope ever ! — by the sudden springing 
Of green leaves which the winter hid so long ; 

And by the bursts of free, triumphant singing, 
After cold silent months, the woods among ; 

And by the rending of the frozen chains. 

Which bound the glorious rivers on their plains ; 

" Deem not the wordsof lightthathere were spoken, 
But as a lovely song to leave no trace. 

Yet shall the gloom which wraps thy hills be broken. 
And the full dayspring rise upon thy race ! 

And fading mists the better path disclose, 

And the wide desert blossom as the rose." 



So by the Cross they parted, in the wild. 
Each fraught with musings for life's after-day, 

Memories to visit one, the forest's child. 
By many a blue stream in its lonely way ; 

And upon one, midst busy throngs to press 

Deep thoughts and sad, yet full of holiness. 



LAST RITES. 

By the mighty minster's bell, 
Tolling with a sudden swell ; 
By the colours half-mast high, 
O'er the sea hung mournfully ; 
Know, a prince hath died ! 

By the drum's dull muflled sound, 
By the arms that sweep the ground, 
By the volleying muskets' tone, 
Speak ye of a soldier gone 
In his manhood's pride. 

By the chanted psalm that fills 
Reverently the ancient hills,* 
Learn, that from his harvests done, 
Peasants bear a brother on 
To his last repose. 

By the pall of snowy white 
Through the yew-trees gleaming bright; 
By the garland on the bier, 
Weep ! a maiden claims thy tear — 
Broken is the rose ! 

Which is the tenderest rite of all 1 
Buried virgin's coronal, 
Requiem o'er the monarch's head, 
Farewell gun for warrior dead, 
Herdsman's funeral hymn % 

Tells not each of human wo 1 
Each of hope and strength brougnt low 1 
Number each with holy things. 
If one chastening thought it brings, 
Ere life's day grow dim ! 



THE CLIFFS OF DOVER. 

The inviolate Island of the sage and free. — Byron, 

Rocks of my country ! let the cloud 

Your crested heights array, 
And rise ye like a fortress proud. 

Above the surge and spray ! 



* A custom stiU retained at rural funerals, in some parts of 
England and Wales. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



343 



My spirit greets you as ye stand, 
Breasting the billow's foam : 

Oh ! thus for ever guard the land, 
The severed Land of Home ! 

I have left rich blue skies behind, 

Lighting up classic shrines, 
And music in the southern wind, 

And sunshine on the vines. 

The breathings of the myrtle flowers, 

Have floated o'er my way ; 
The pilgrim's voice, at vesper-hours, 

Hath soothed me with its lay. 

The Isles of Greece, the Hills of Spain, 
The purple Heavens of Rome, — 

Yes, all are glorious ; — yet again, 
I bless thee. Land of Home ! 

For thine the Sabbath peace, my land ! 

And thine the guarded hearth ; 
And thine the dead, the noble band, 

That make thee holy earth. 

Their voices meet me in thy breeze, 
Their steps are on thy plains ; 

Their names, by old majestic trees, 
Are whispered round thy fanes. 

Their blood hath mingled with the tide 

Of thine exulting sea : 
Oh ! be it still a joy, a pride, 

To live and die for thee ! 



THE VOICE OF HOME TO THE PRO- 
DIGAL. 

Von Bautnen, aiisWellen, aus Mauem, 
Wie ruft es dir freundlich und lind ; 
Was hast du iu wandern, zu trauern t 
Komm' spielen, du freundliches Kind ! 

La Motie Fouquc 

Oh ! when wilt thou return 

To thy sprit's early loves 7 
To the freshness of the morn. 

To the stillness of the groves ? 

The summer-birds are calling 

Thy household porch around. 
And the merry waters falling, 

With sweet laughter in their sound. 

And a thousand bright-veined flowers 
From their banks of moss and fern. 

Breathe of the sunny hours — 
But when wilt thou return 1 

Oh ! thou hast wandered long 

From thy home without a guide, 
And thy native woodland song, 

In thine altered heart hath died. 



Thou hast flung the wealth away, 
And the glory of thy spring ; 

And to thee the leaves' light play, 
Is a long-forgotten thing. 

But when wilt thou return"? — 
Sweet dews may freshen soon 

The flower, within whose urn 
Too fiercely gazed the noon. 

O'er the image of the sky, 

Which the lake's clear bosom wore. 
Darkly may shadows Ue — 

But not for evermore. 

Give back thy heart again, 
To the freedom of the woods, 

To the birds' triumphant strain, 
To the mountain solitudes ! 

But when wilt thou return 1 

Along thine own pure air, 
There are young sweet voices borne — 

Oh ! should not thine be there 1 

Still at thy father's board 

There is kept a place for thee. 

And, by thy smile restored, 
Joy round the hearth shall be. 

Still hath thy mother's eye, 

Thy coming step to greet, 
A look of days gone by. 

Tender and gravely sweet. 

Still, when the prayer is said. 
For thee kind bosoms yearn. 

For thee fond tears are shed — 
Oh! when wilt thou return 1 



THE WAKENING. 

How many thousands are wakening now ! 
Some to the songs from the forest-bough, 
To the rustling of leaves at the lattice-pane, 
To the chiming fall of the early rain. 

And some far out on the deep mid-sea. 
To the dash of the waves in their foaming glee, 
As they break into spray on the ship's tall side. 
That holds through the tumult her path of pride. 

And some — oh ! well may their hearts rejoice — 
To the gentle sound of a mother's voice ! 
Long shall they yearn for that kindly tone. 
When from the board and the hearth 't is gone. 

And some in the camp, to the bugle's breath. 
And the tramp of the steed on the echoing heath, 
And the sudden roar of the hostile gun, 
Which tells that a field must ere night be won. 



344 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



And some, in the gloomy convict-cell, 

To the dull deep note of the warning hell, 

As it heavily calls them forth to die, 

Wlien the bright sun mounts in the laughing sky. 

And some to the peal of the hunter's horn, 
And some to the din from the city borne, 
And some to Uie rolling of torrent-floods, 
Far midst old mountains and solemn woods. 

So are we roused on this chequered earth, 
Each unto light hath a daily birth. 
Though fearful or joyous, though sad or sweet, 
Are the voices which first our upspringing meet. 

But one must the sound be, and one the call. 
Which from the dust shall awake us all, 
One — but to severed and distant dooms — 
How shall the sleepers arise from the tombs 1 



THE DYING IMPROVISATORE.* 

My heart shall be poured over thee — and break. 

Prophecy of Dante. 

The spirit of my land ! 
It visits me once more ! — though I must die 
Far from the myrtles which thy breeze has fanned, 

My own bright Italy ! 

It is, it is thy breath. 
Which stirs my soul e'en yet, as wavering flame 
Is shaken by the wind ; — in Ufc and death 

Still trembling, yet the same ! 

Oh ! that love's quenchless power 
Might waft my voice to fill thy summer sky, 
And through thy groves its dying music shower, 

Italy! Italy! 

The nightingale is there, 
The sunbeam's glow, the citron-flower's perfume. 
The south-wind's whisper in the scented air — 

It will not pierce the tomb ! 

Never, oh! never more. 
On thy Rome's purple heaven mine eye shall dwell, 
Or watch the bright waves melt along thy shore — 

My Italy, farewell 1 

Alas ! — thy hills among, 
Had I but left a memory of my name, 
Of love and grief one deep, true, fervent song. 

Unto immortal fame ! 

But like a lute's brief tone, 
Like a rose-odour on the breezes cast. 
Like a swift, flush of dayspring, seen and gone, 

So hath my spirit passed ! 



Pouring itself away, 
As a wild bird amidst the foHage turns 
That which within him triumphs, beats, or burns, 

Into a fleeting lay ; 

That swells, and floats, and dies. 
Leaving no echo to the summer woods 
Of the rich breathings and impassioned sighs, 

Which thrilled their solitudes. 

Yet, yet remember me ! 
Friends ! that upon its murmurs oft have hung. 
When from my bosom, joyously and free, 

The fiery fountain sprung. 

Under the dark rich blue 
Of midnight heavens, and on the star-Ht sea. 
And when woods kindle into spring's first hue. 

Sweet friends ! remember me ! 

And in the marble halls, 
Where life's full glow the dreams of beauty wear, 
And poet-thoughts embodied light the walls, 

Let me be with you there ! 

Fain would I bind for you 
My memory with all glorious things to dwell ; 
Fain bid all lovely sounds my name renew 

Sweet friends, bright land, farewell 



'■I 



MUSIC OF YESTERDAY. 



* Sestiiii, the ■ Roman Improvisatore, when on his death- 
bed at Pai'is, is said to have poured forth a Farewell to Italy, 
in his most impassioned poetry. 



O ! mein Geist, ich fiihle es in mir, strebt nach etwaa 
Ueberirdischem, das keinem Meiischen gegonnt ist. — Tieck 

The chord, the harp's full chord is hushed, 

The voice hath died away, 
Whence music, like sweet waters, gushed, 

But yesterday. 

Th' awakening note, the breeze-like swell. 

The full o'ersweeping tone. 
The sounds that sighed, " Farewell, farewell I" 

Are gone — all gone. 

The love, whose fervent spirit passed 

With the rich measure's flow ; 
The grief to which it sank at last — 

Where are they now 1 

They are with the scents, by summer's breath 

Borne from a rose now shed ; 
With the words from lips long sealed in death— 

For ever fled. 

The sea-shell of its native deep 

A moaning thriU retains. 
But earth and air no record keep 

Of parted strains. 
And all the memories, all the dreams, 

They woke in floating by ; 
The tender thoughts, th' Elysian gleams — 

Could these too die ? 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



345 



They died — as on the water's breast 

The ripple melts away, 
When the breeze that stirred it sinks to rest — 

So perished they ! 

Mysterious in their sudden birth, 

And mournful in their close, 
Passing, and finding not on earth 

Aim or repose. 

Whence were they ? — like the breath of flowers 

Why thus to come and go 1 — 
A long, long journey must be ours 

Ere this we know ! 



THE FORSAKEN HEARTH. 



Was mir fehlt'?— Mir fehlt ja alles, 
Bin so ganz veriassen hier ! 

Ti/roUse Melody. 

The Hearth, the Hearth is desolate, the fire is 

quenched and gone, 
That into happy children's eyes once brightly 

laughing shone ; 
The place where mirth and music met is hushed 

through day and night, — 
Oh ! for one kind, one sunny face, of all that there 

made light ! 

But scattered are those pleasant smiles afar by 

mount and shore. 
Like gleaming waters from one spring dispersed 

to meet no more ; 
Those kindred eyes reflect not now each other's 

joy or mirth. 
Unbound is that sweet wreath of home — alas ! the 

lonely Hearth I 

The voices that have mingled here now speak ano- 
ther tongue, 

Or breathe, perchance, to alien cars the songs their 
mother sung : 

Sad, strangely sad, in stranger lands, must sound 
each household tone, — 

The Hearth, the Hearth is desolate, the brigfit fire 
quenched and gone. 

But are they speaking, singing yet, as in their days 

of glee'? 
Those voices, are they lovely still, still sweet on 

earth or sea ? — 
Oh ! some are hushed, and some are changed, and 

never shall one strain 
Blend their fraternal cadences triumphantly again ! 

And of the hearts that here were Unked by long- 
remembered years, 

Alas ! the brother knows not now when fall the 
sister's tears f 



One haply revels at the feast, while one may droop 

alone. 
For broken is the household chain, the bright fire 

quenched and gone ! 

Not so — 't is not a broken chain — thy memory 
binds them still, 

Thou holy Hearth of other days, though silent now 
and chill ! 

The smiles, the tears, the rites beheld by thine at- 
testing stone. 

Have yet a living power to mark thy children for 
thine own. 

The father's voice, the mother's prayer, though 

called from earth away, 
With music rising from the dead, their spirits yet 

shall sway ; 
And by the past, and by the grave, the parted yet 

are one, 
Though the loved Hearth be desolate, the bright 

fire quenched and gone ! 



THE DREAMER. 

There is no such thins zs forgetting possible to the mind ; 
a thnusand accidents may, and will, interpose a veil between 
our present consciousness, and the secret inscription on the 
mind ; but alike, whether veiled or unveiled, the inscrij^ion 
remains for ever. — English Opium-Eater. 

Thou hast been called, O, Sleep ! the friend of wo, 
But 't is the happy who have called thee sa 

Southey. 

Peace to thy dreams! — thou art slumbering now, 
The moonlight's calm is upon thy brow ; 
All the deep love that o'erflows thy breast, 
Lies 'midst the hush of thy heart at rest, 
Like the scent of a flower in its folded bell, 
When eve through the woodlands hath sighed 
farewell. 

Peace ! — the sad memories that through the day 

With a weight on thy lonely bosom lay. 
The sudden thoughts of the changed and dead. 
That bowed thee, as winds bow the willow's head, 
The yearnings for faces and voices gone — 
All are forgotten ! — Sleep on, sleep on ! 

Are they forgotten ? — It is not so ! 
Slumber divides not the heart from its wo. 
E'en now o'er thine aspect swift changes pass, 
Like lights and shades over wavy grass : 
Tremblest thou, Dreamer "? — O love and grief ! 
Ye have storms that shake e'en the closed-up leaf! 

On thy parted hps there's a quivering thrill. 

As on a lyre ere its chords are still; 

On the long silk lashes that fringe thine eye. 

There's a large tear gathering heavily ; 

A rain from the clouds of thy spirit pressed — 

Sorrowful Dreamer ! this is not rest ! 



346 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



It is Thought at work amidst buried hours, 
It is Love keeping vigil o'er perished flowers. — 
Oh ! v/e bear within us mysterious things, 
Of Memory and Anguish unfathomed springs, 
And Passion, those gulfs of the heart to fill, 
With bitter waves, which it ne'er may still. 

Well might we pause ere we gave them sway, 
Flinging the peace of our couch away ! 
Well might we look on our souls in fear. 
They find no fount of oblivion here ! 
They forget not, the mantle of sleep beneath — 
How know we if under the wings of death 1 



THE WINGS OF THE DOVE. 



Oh ! that I had the wings of a dove, that I might flee away 
and be at rest. 



Oh ! for thy wings, thou dove ! 
Now sailing by with sunshine on thy breast ; 

That, borne like thee above, 
I too might flee away, and be at rest ! 

Where wilt thou fold those plumes, 
Bird of the forest-shadows, holiest bird 1 

In what rich leafy glooms. 
By the sweet voice of hidden waters stirred 1 

Over what blessed home. 
What roof with dark, deep, summer foliage crowned, 

O ! fair as ocean's foam ! 
Shall thy bright bosom shed a gleam around 1 

Or seek'st thou some old shrine 
Of nymph or saint, no more by votary wooed, 

Though still, as if divine. 
Breathing a spirit o'er the solitude 1 

Yet wherefore ask thy way 1 
Blest, ever blest, whate'er its aim, thou art ! 

Unto the greenwood spray. 
Bearing no dark remembrance at thy heart ! 

No echoes that will blend 
A sadness with the whispers of the grove ; 

No memory of a friend 
Far off", or dead, or changed to thee, thou dove ! 

Oh ! to some cool recess 
Take, take me with thee on the summer wind, 

Leaving the weariness 
And all the fever of this life behind : 

The aching and the void 
Within the heart whereunto none reply, 

The young bright hopes destroyed — 
Bird ! bear me with thee through the sunny sky ! 



Wild wish, and longing vain. 
And brief upspringing to be glad and free ! 

Go to thy woodland reign ! 
My soul is bound and held — I may not flee. 

For even by all the fears 
And thoughts that haunt my dreams — untold, un- 
known. 

And burning woman's tears. 
Poured from mine eyes in silence and alone ; 

Had I thy v.'ings, thou dove ! 
High midst the gorgeous Isles of Cloud to soar, 

Soon the strong cords of love 
Would draw me earthwards — homewards — yet 
once more. 



PSYCHE BORNE BY ZEPHYRS TO 
THE ISLAND OF PLEASURE.* 

Souvent I'ame, fortifice par la contemplation des chosea 
divines, voudroit deployer ses ailes vers le ciel. EUe croit 
qu'au terme de sa carricre un rideau va se lever pour lui 
ddcouvrir des scenes de lumiere : mais quand la mort louche 
son corps p6rissable, elle jette un regard en arriere vers les 
plaisirs terrestres et vers ses compagnes mortelles. — Schlegcl. 
Translated by Madame de Stael. 

Fearfully and mournfully 
Thou bidd'st the earth farewell, 

And yet thou 'rt passing, loveliest one ! 
In a brighter land to dwell. 

Ascend, ascend rejoicing ! 

The sunshine of that shore 
Around thoe, as a glorious robe, 

Shall stream for evermore. 

The breezy music wandering 
There through th' Elysian sky. 

Hath no deep tone that seems to float 
From a happier time gone by : 

And there the day's last crimson 

Gives no sad memories birth. 
No thought of dead or distant friends, 

Or partings — as on earth. 

Yet fearfully and mournfully 
Thou bidd'st that earth farewell. 

Although thou 'rt passing, loveliest one ! 
In a brighter land to dwell. 

A land where all is deathless — 

The sunny wave's repose. 
The wood with its rich melodies, 

The summer and its rose. 



* Written for a picture in which Psyche, on her flight up- 
wards, is represented looking back sadly and anziou£ily to 
the earth. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



347 



A land that sees no parting, 
That hears no sound of sighs, 

That waits thee with immortal air 
Lift, lift those anxious eyes ! 

Oh ! how like thee, thou trembler ! 

Man's spirit fondly clings 
With timid love, to this, its world 

Of old familiar things ! 

We pant, we thirst for fountains 

That gush not here below ! 
On, on we toil, allured by dreams 

Of the living water's flow : 

We pine for kindred natures 

To mingle with our own ; 
For communings more full and high 

Than aught by mortal known : 

We strive with brief aspirings 
Against our bounds in vain ; 

Yet summoned to be free at last, 
We shrink — and clasp our chain ! 

And fearfully and mournfully 

We bid the earth farewell, 
Though passing from its mists, like thee, 

In a brighter world to dwell. 



r 



THE BOON OF MEMORY. 



IVIany things answered nie. — Manfred. 



I GO, I go ! — and must mine image fade, 

From the green spots wherein my childhood played, 

By my own streams 1 
Must my life part from each familiar place. 
As a bird's song, that leaves the woods no trace 

Of its lone themes 1 

Will the friend pass my dwelling, and forget 
The welcomes there, the hours when we have met 

In grief or glee 1 
All the sweet counsel, the communion high, 
The kindly words of trust, in days gone by, 

Poured full and free ? 

A boon, a talisman, O Memory ! give. 

To shrine my name in hearts where I would live 

For evermore ! 
Bid the wind speak of me where I have dwelt. 
Bid the stream's voice, of all my soul hath felt, 

A thought restore ! 

In the rich rose, whose bloom I loved so well, 
In the dim brooding violet of the dell. 

Set deep that thought ! 
And let the sunset's melancholy glow. 
And let the spring's first whisper, faint and low. 

With me be fraught ! 



And Memory answered me: — "Wild wish and vain! 
I have no hues the loveliest to detain 

In the heart's core. 
The place they held in bosoms all their own. 
Soon with new shadows fiird,new flowers o'ergrown, 

Is theirs no more." 

Hast th ou such power, O Love? — And Love replied, 
" It is not mine ! Pour out thy soul's full tide 

Of hope and trust, 
Prayer, tear, devotedness, that boon to gain — 
'T is but to write, with the heart's fiery rain, 

Wild words on dust !" 

Song, is the gift with thee 1 — I ask a lay, 
Soft, fervent, deep, that will not pass away 

From the still breast ; 
Filled with a tone — oh ! not for deathless fame 
But a sweet haunting murmur of my name, 

Where it would rest. 

And Song made answer — " It is not in me. 
Though called immortal ; though my gifts may be 

All but divine. 
A place of lonely brightness I can give ; — 
A changeless one, where thou with Love wouldst 
li^e — 

This is not mine !" 

Death, Death ! wilt thou the restless wish fulfil "? 
And Death, the Strong One, spoke: — ' ' I can but stiL 

Each vain regret. 
What if forgotten 7 — All thy soul would crave, 
Thou too, within the mantle of the grave, 

Wilt soon forget." 

Then did my heart in lone faint sadness die, 
As from all nature's voices one reply. 

But one, was given : — 
" Earth has no heart, fond dreamer ! with a tone ' 
To send thee back the spirit of thine own — 

Seek it in Heaven." 



THE GRAVES OF MARTYRS. 

The kings of old have shrine and tomb. 
In many a minster's haughty gloom; 
And green, along the ocean side. 
The mounds arise where heroes died ; 
But show me, on thy flowery breast. 
Earth I where thy nameless martyrs rest ! 

The thousands that, uncheered by praise, 
Have made one offering of their days ; 
For Truth, for Heaven, for Freedom's sake, 
Resigned the bitter cup to take, 
And silently, in fearless faith. 
Bowing their noble souls to death. 

Where sleep they. Earth ? — by no proud stone 
Their narrow couch of rest is known ; 



348 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



The still sad glory of their name, 
Hallows no mountain unto Fame : 
No — not a tree the record bears 
Of their deep thoughts and lonely prayers. 

Yet haply all around lie strewed 

The ashes of that multitude : 

It may be that each day we tread, 

Where thus devoted hearts have bled. 

And the young flowers our children sow, 

Take root in holy dust below. 

Oh ! that the many-rustling leaves. 
Which round our homes the summer weaves, 
Or that the streams, in whose glad voice 
Our own familiar paths rejoice, 
Might whisper through the starry sky. 
To tell where those blest slumberers lie ! 

Would not our inmost hearts be stilled. 
With knowledge of their presence filled. 
And by its breathings taught to prize 
The meekness of self-sacrifice 1 
— But the old woods and sounding waves 
Are silent of those hidden graves. 

Yet what if no light footstep there * 
In pilgrim-love and awe repair, 
So let it be ! — like him, whose clay 
Deep buried by his Maker lay, 
They sleep in secret, — but their sod. 
Unknown to man, is marked of God ! ■ 



DREAMS OF HEAVEN. 

Dream'st thou of Heaven? — What dreams are 
thine ? 

Fair child, fair gladsome child ! 
With eyes that like the dew-drop shine, 

And bounding footstep wild. 

Tell me what hues th' immortal shore 

Can wear, my Bird ! to thee. 
Ere yet one shadow hath passed o'er 

Thy glance and spirit free 1 



" Oh ! beautiful is heaven, and bright 
With long, long summer days ! 

I see its lilies gleam in light. 
Where many a fountain plays. 

" And there unchecked, methinks, I rove, 
Seeking where young flowers lie. 

In vale and golden-fruited grove — 
Flowers that are not to die !" 

Thou Poet of the lonely thought, 

Sad heir of gifts divine ! 
Say, with what solemn glory fraught 

Is Heaven in dream of thine 1 

Oh ! where the living waters flow 

Along that radiant shore. 
My soul, a wanderer here, shall know 

The exile-thirst no more ! 

"The burden of the stranger's heart 
Which here unknown I bear. 

Like the night-shadow shall depart, 
With my first wakening there. 

" And borne on eagles wings afar. 
Free thought shall claim its dower 

From every sphere, from every star, 
Of glory and of power." 

O, Woman ! with the soft sad eye 

Of spiritual gleam ! 
Tell me of those bi-ight realms on high, 

How doth thy deep heart dream 1 

By thy sweet mournful voice I know, 

On thy pale brow I see, 
That thou hast loved in silen t wo. 

Say, what is Heaven to thee ? 

" Oh ! Heaven is where no secret dread 
May haunt Love's meeting hour ; 

Where from the past, no gloom is shed 
O'er, the heart's chosen bower ; 

" Where every severed wreath is bound ; 

And none have heard the knell 
That smites the soul in that wild sound — 

Farewell! Beloved Fareicell!" 



THE END. 



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